


King in the Long Night

by Capn_Chryssalid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Stellaris (Video Game)
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M, Minor Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 114,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capn_Chryssalid/pseuds/Capn_Chryssalid
Summary: The War of Five Kings rages in Westeros. A bloody Civil War wracks Yi Ti. The Disputed Lands in Essos are aflame. In the night sky, a great Red Comet can be seen. Yet the comet is not the only visitor from deep space. For decades, the Commonwealth of Man has observed this far-flung system and finally, the order has come to begin the Uplift, whether the natives like it or not.





	1. Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (1) Varys; TITLE (5k)   
> (2) Jorah (4.4k)   
> (3) Talisa (3.3k)   
> (4) Jon (4.5k)

. . .

(1) Varys

. . .

Varys didn’t know the name of the street urchin who had first found it.

Normally, such a thing would lead to suspicion – that this was a trap, or a forgery, or some mummer’s farce - but as far as he knew the curiosity had simply traded a few hands in Kings Landing before catching the attention of one of his little birds. Generally, those brought into his employ were trained to temper their often-well-earned impulse to steal items of potential value (a valuable skill for any homeless child). As he had long since learned, words copied off a scroll or overheard in the dark could be more valuable than any bauble.

 _Almost_ any bauble.

This one was… it was… well, Varys didn’t quite know _what_ it was. But it was different. Unique. There were not many things that could claim to baffle Westeros’ Master of Whisperers. There were fewer things still that filled him with a secret sliver of foreboding.

Walking up the stone steps and quietly opening the door, Varys saw a hunched and black-robed form in the center of the chamber, right hand shakily scribbling on a piece of paper while the other held a particular sort of Myrish glass to his eye. The man was a Maester, wizened but not very much older than Varys himself. As far as the Citadel knew, he had… perished some time ago _en route_ to his new post deep within the Dornish Marches. Treacherous lands, those. All sorts of desert vipers, scorpions and spiders.

He worked for Varys, now. There was often a need for learned men, particularly those skilled in the healing arts, when it came to the darker business in and about Kings Landing. All was well, so long as the man never left the comfortable conditions in which he was kept. Even little birds needed to mend their wings from time to time, after all. Among other things.

Varys coughed politely, and the Maester glanced up for only a moment before returning to his study. The Spider felt a moment’s irritation come and go, evaporating like a fine mist on a hot day. The item was on a silver tray under the Maester’s Myrish eye; Varys could understand and even excuse the preoccupation. It was a baffling thing, after all.

Looking around the workspace and recalling his last visit, Varys saw more recent additions to the decor: a great many recent additions, almost all in the form of sketches and writing. There were pictures of the proposed anatomy of the item’s discrete parts… in particular the wings and the chest cavity. Many bore angry strokes of ink, crossing out what had been recorded moments before. The dissection sketches hung from the walls and made neat-sheets on the floor and even the nearby bed. Books had likewise been scattered about, but they were not the old books that had previously been in the man’s personal library. These were new additions, purchased or otherwise obtained at the man’s request by agents of the Spider, either known or unknown. It was all new, and all for this… all to try and unravel the mystery of the item.

“I am as a blind man, vainly grasping to describe the sun,” the Maester grumbled, setting his newest sketch aside. Still standing close by, Varys could see what appeared to be a nonsensical weave of lines.

“Maester Ondrew, a pleasure as always,” Varys spoke softly, in what he had practiced and intended to be a friendly and encouraging tone. “I came hoping you had discovered… something, indeed, anything that might explain this… natural curiosity?”

“My discovery is that it is anything but natural. Anything but!” the Maester put the sketch down next to three others like it and turned a shaking hand to a glass of wine at the edge of the table. He held up the Myrish eye with his free hand. “This lens has revealed much, yet answered nothing… see for yourself, Spider, what you’ve caught in your web. Or what your web has become tangled in.”

Tittering lightly, Varys politely took the lens and made as if to copy what he had seen the Maester doing earlier. He had no allusions that it would help explain anything, but humoring the man would make him open-up more and reveal what he suspected, at least, even if it was not what he knew. The lens itself was of the highest quality, and designed for a jeweler on the Street of Gold. It was one of the finest instruments in the city and worth a great deal. Varys handled it carefully and, as requested, attempted to peer into the innards of the item.

“Ah. The lines on your paper,” he said, seeing them. Yet those lines must have been finer and thinner than a human hair, and, impossibly, they had the look of gold to them. What goldsmith could spin such a fine thread?

Gently putting the lens down, Varys inspected the item as a whole: it was splayed out on the silver tray, alongside the finest instruments and medical tools money could buy. On the outside, the item appeared to be nothing more or less than a simple run-of-the-mill raven or crow, with black plumage and brown eyes, unremarkable in any way. Yet, once cut open, rather than blood and stomach and viscera, there were only these fine gold wires, these strange coils of curious fabric in place of muscle, and pieces of what had to be crystal. The previous owner had called it a “clockwork raven” yet there were no gears to be found, making for a poor clock indeed.

“The arched bill and short wings indicate it is not a bird of Citadel stock, but a wild and common raven,” Maester Ondrew scoffed. “Superficially, I mean. It was modeled off of a wild raven. At first, given the remarkable realism of it… the _impossible_ realism of it…” the Maester took another drink of wine before staring down into the cup. “I had thought it a live bird, captured and… somehow changed. Given the structures inside… there is no chance such a thing could develop in nature. No chance. It is undoubtedly man-made. Or… ‘made’ in some fashion, if not by men.”

 _If not by men_.

Varys let that go, for the moment. “What do we know?”

“A fair question. What _do_ we know?” Ondrew shook his head and paced around the room, starting with some diagrams of the wings. “It flies. Or it flew. I haven’t personally seen it fly, since it was brought here in a broken state, but supposedly some street urchin hit it with a rock… no doubt hoping to make a meal of it. Thus I was told it flew, by you, and given the construction of the wings I find it believable. I studied ravenry at the Citadel and I know these birds, inside and out. If you tease these fabric-muscles with tweezers they will articulate the wings in the same way as a living bird.”

“It can fly. I am certain of it,” the Maester continued, laughing under his breath at the magnitude of what had been handed to him to unravel. “Look here.” He pointed to drawings of the chest area. “The muscles are not muscles as we understand them, though the principles are similar… superficially similar. They contract as ours do. Yet they resist being cut like no substance I have seen before and they feel more like cloth than wire. They are stronger than muscle as well, yet lighter… and a bird’s muscles are, by weight, far more powerful than our own.”

“The chest cavity itself contains a number of structures… not organs but structures,” he went on, pointing to new drawings. “I have been able to remove a few, but most I do not dare to. There are no lungs. What could be a heart is more a reservoir for a pale white fluid. Deep within the body I found two of these strange… ceramic constructs. And look!”

The fraying Maester tore down a sketch he had made of a strange hexagonal shape. Given the scale bar on the side of the drawing, it was perhaps the size of the nail on Varys’ index finger. It bore regular indentations long the top and wires that fed into… something… but more shocking still was what looked like writing on the top and, in even smaller print, on the sides. The letters were strange and of unknown meaning, but the others bore some similarity.

“Numbers, perhaps?” Varys wondered. “Some sort of code?” The repetition of a single very simple symbol seemed, almost certainly, to be a ‘zero.’

“I believe so, though it cannot be certain,” Ondrew agreed, and all but threw the paper into Varys’ hands. “I could not read this writing with my naked eye, but what further proof is needed that this was not some strange creature but an artificial construct?”

He held up a finger to forestall a response. “I know what you want to know more than anything else, Spider. Can it see?” He pointed back at the item. “Can it hear? Can it speak? Is there one like it out in the street, following you, even now?”

Varys, in that moment, felt his blood run cold. Yes. That was very much what he wanted to know. It appeared that while he had his own ‘little birds’ following men of importance in the city, some resourceful soul had _literally_ beaten him at his own game, using _actual_ little birds. Varys didn’t know if he should be more flattered or terrified. Was it possible _he_ was just the poor imitation? How long had… things like this been in Kings Landing? How long had things like this been on Westeros? Was this the first and only one? Certainly, no man Varys knew had ever heard of such a thing.

The gods knew what a man could do with such a tool. There were more pigeons and crows in the city than there were people. Aside from the occasional Maester’s Raven, they were given no notice aside from being urban pests. They could fly anywhere in the city, right up to the King’s window, and no one would bat an eye. What secrets could these all but invisible spies tell?

“The eyes are intricate structures, but within them, I saw what seemed to be a lens much like the one we have here,” Ondrew explained, passing by the Myrish lens and bringing over another sketch from a small side-table. “This is a lens a thousand-times smaller and finer than anything seen before, yet it bends instead of breaking when touched. I believe it _must_ be part of a… a… mechanical eye of some sort. Yes. And behind it, once I carefully opened the skull, a mechanical brain for a mechanical bird.”

“With a bird’s animal intelligence?” Varys hoped against hope.

 

“Whoever built this could make muscles better than natural muscle, eyes likely better than a natural eye, bones stronger than natural bone… who is to say?” Ondrew made his way back to his cup, finishing off what was left. “A mind better than a natural mind, given to us by the gods? Are we seeing the work of other gods? New ones? With new forms of life?”

He quickly shook his head. “Foolish thinking. The time I have spent on this… just how much it has revealed that we _do not know_ …” To the Spider, he turned and pleaded, not for the first time, “I tell you again: we _must_ pass this on to the Citadel. There are more learned men than I. Men with platinum and brass links to their name! This could be the greatest discovery of our age!”

“Yet a discovery that would be kept in the walls of Oldtown, no, the Citadel itself?” Varys already knew what would happen in such a scenario.

Ondrew withdrew slightly at the implication. “Yes, of course. The panic… you can imagine it? Men frantically killing every bird they see? Every animal, even, for anyone who could build this… could build one in the likeness of a mouse, or a cat or…”

“A man?” Varys guessed.

“Who is to say?” Ondrew repeated, almost helpless.

“Yes, there would be panic,” Varys agreed, ultimately. “There _should_ be panic. Men _should_ be terrified. When I imagine the hands that must have crafted that… thing…”

“Mayhap, Lord Varys,” the Maester for once eschewed calling his master a ‘Spider.’ “Yet it is only a _thing_. In the end. We do not know how to make Valyrian steel, yet we know it was made by men. Would not a savage or a wildling see our works: our towers, our steel, our pumps and our waterwheels and think them magic? Yet we know all these to simply be things.”

Spreading his hands out over the lifeless mechanical bird, Ondrew took a calming breath. “This, too, surely is just a _thing_ … made by clever men. Cleverer than us, certainly, but that is all.”

“Men who would see us as we see wildlings, by your own comparison,” Varys reminded him, glaring down at the bird and Maester alike. The Master of Whisperers sighed. “And how do _we_ treat wildlings?”

The Maester had no response.

“That if anything should terrify you,” Varys concluded. “Will these men come for their lost little bird? Is that why none has ever been found before? Have you considered that?”

The Maester gulped and stared down at the item. “I would expect, Spider, that the men who could craft such a wondrous marvel as this, and send it out to watch over us, yet not harm us, would be men of learning and thus… men of peace… and - and great wisdom.”

“Ah. Such fine men they must surely be,” Varys replied with a titter. Yet even as he laughed at the Maester’s naivete, the sight of the item and all it represented chilled him to the core. His laughter, already rather forced, died even before he had meant it to.

“You may be right, Maester.” Varys looked around with room, at all the handing sketches, at all that was clearly beyond even their most learned men to comprehend. “These may be the products of a race of peaceful, learned wise-men… but I would not gamble on it.”

“The Citadel--”

“Will remain in the dark, for just a little longer,” Varys cut the man off, but tempered his decision by smiling assuredly. “Focus instead on what knowledge you can glean here, in your name, that will one day be brought to them. When it is time. Imagine the looks on the faces of the Arch-Maesters when you come to them with your discovery. Focus on that future and see it come to pass.”

Clearly, Ondrew did, for just a moment then he seemed to have a far-away look. Varys knew the inner working of the Citadel and how the common Maester, for all that he was a member of a brotherhood, nonetheless was but a cog in the hierarchy of that organization… and treated as such. After all, had the Citadel not accepted him as dead with hardly a murmur? Surely, the idea of returning in triumph with vast knowledge was something to capture his imagination.

Who knew? It could even come true one day.

Perhaps.

Varys remained in the workshop for a time after that, committing what he could to memory of what his pet Maester had discovered. Privately, he let his mind wander to entertain possible scenarios. If he brought this to the King, what then? Robert would’ve been fascinated, no doubt, and even come to understood the security threat… _Joffrey not so much_. And ultimately, what could any of them even do? Kill every bird and beast in the city – in the realm – out of frantic paranoia? How would their unseen wise-men respond to such a thing? Did they even know one of their pets had vanished like this? Was there already a reckoning of some sort on the way, and if there was, what could stop it?

Would it just be best to bury the damned thing and forget it ever existed?

Back on the streets, Varys pulled his hood over his head, shifted his stance and pace, and vanished into the throng that filled the streets of Kings Landing. Years of practice had left him with a talent for coming and going unseen, blending in seamlessly with the forest of humanity as he moved from place to place. Not to be immodest, but it was a trick that had worked on pursuers from Myr to Sunspear.

Yet, this afternoon, as dusk began to fall, the Master of Whisperers in Kings Landing couldn’t help but glance nervously around. There were crows on the eaves of buildings, watching the humans below. There were birds in the sky, watching. There were cats on roofs and lounging near gutters… watching. How many, truly, were flesh and blood. And were they watching… or were they _spying_?

It was often said that the Higher Mysteries of the world could drive a man mad.

Varys was beginning to understand why.

. . .

**The King in the Long Night**

. . .

Thirty-five thousand kilometers from Kings Landing, the door to a well-lit room opened with a hiss.

“Commodore!” A tall woman entered, carrying a nondescript brown bottle and a smile on her face. Thin and short with pitch black hair in a bob, a silver star on braided gold twinkled on the left shoulder of her midnight blue fleet uniform. Without preamble, she let the door close behind her and walked up to a low table in the center of the office where a pair of comfortable chairs waited. “I hear congratulations are in order!”

“Always a pleasure, Commodore.” A man in a similar uniform, but sporting pure white under his star and a second streak of the same color across his collar, stood up and beckoned her over. “And yes, they are.”

The man had more than a foot and a half on the new arrival and leaned forward just a bit to meet her with a hearty handshake. Inspecting the woman’s gift, he set it down on the table but quickly headed off to another cabinet while she sat down, crossing her legs and relaxing on a padded chair that quickly conformed comfortably to her body. With a soft chime, the chair connected wirelessly with the dumb AI in her clothes, adjusting heat, texture and pliability to match her personal preferences.

Making his way back to his guest, the man smirked and held up a bottle of his own, together with a pair of glasses. “They call this ‘Arbor Gold’ down on the Western continent. Tastes a bit like the Riesling from back home, but with a particular fruity taste; you’ll like it.”

“Fancier than the frontier whiskey I brought, that’s for sure,” the woman remarked with a grin.

The man popped the cork on the wine, unwinding the bit of string that further sealed it against the elements. Before pouring it, though, he attached a metal and ceramic ring to the mouth of the bottle. It powered on with a faint blue glow and a puff of frigid air.

“So, Ayako,” he began, briefly sniffing the cork before putting it aside, “before we get to congratulating one another – because this was good news for the entire system, not just my team here – how was the trip over?”

“Uneventful,” Ayako replied with a careless shrug. “Ever since the defense stations came online, the system has been quiet as a tomb. Since we have zero civilian traffic this far out in the frontier, the only thing breaking the monotony is the occasional military transport.”

“What about the exploration ship that came by a month ago?”

“Did their business and left without incident.” With an unspoken command, the entire wall opposite faded away, the newly transparent surface permitted a stunning view of the planet currently designated ‘Terros,’ a distant cultural cousin of Mother Earth. “Same thing our scouts found: there’s nothing strange in the system except the planet below.”

Commodore Ayako Ōtsuka had the honor of commanding a Frontier Outpost in the Commonwealth, far off the beaten path. Unlike the Observation Post they were currently within, Ōtsuka’s frontier outpost straddled the sun in the very center of the system. From there, it radiated ownership of the surrounding space for light-years. If a hostile power was not inclined to respect that, well, that was what the defense stations were for: three of them with overlapping fields of fire, arranged in an orbital radius of about a hundred million kilometers from the sun. Each of the powerful bastions was led by a Commander subordinate to the Outpost Commodore, though the Outpost itself had rather pitiful armaments limited by treaty.

Outside the military sphere, the system was host to only a single mining station out by the second gas giant. It produced a non-negligible amount of energy that served as the sole bit of trade between this distant system and the Commonwealth as a whole. They weren’t even part of a proper Sector with a governor separate from the Core World… at least not yet.

“The new Mark III plasma thrusters are speedy,” Ayako went on to say, watching with bright brown eyes as he poured the wine. “The trip only took about two and a half days. But I wanted to visit in person. This is going to be the defining moment of our careers, after all.” She delicately received one of the glasses of wine and held it between her fingers. “Thank you, Jason.”

“To the Commonwealth,” Jason Ellison toasted, raising his glass. A small electronic strip on it dutifully displayed the temperature it had been ordered to keep.

“To the Commonwealth,” Ayako seconded, and they shared a drink as Commodore Jason Ellison took a seat opposite.

“It was a Chinorr Explorer, wasn’t it?” he wondered aloud, between sips. “The _Bafghien_ , as I recall?”

“Captain Odnal,” Ayako provided the name of the explorer’s commander. She sipped her glass and shook her head in dismay. “Disgusting creatures, Chinorr. Thoroughly repulsive. But he _was_ polite. Sent over the traditional Chinorr friendship gift of a rotting piece of meat… but was kind enough to keep it in a sealed container.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“More interesting was that our Captain Odnal knew a fellow who had been on the expedition to Hades Alpha.”

“The Dimensional Horror?”

“Oh yes. He had a few stories to tell.”

“Thank God that _thing_ isn’t in our space,” Ellison sneered.

“No. We just have space dragons flittering about,” Ayako sighed. “Or Ether Drakes or whatever the xenobiologists want us to call it this week.”

“ _Speaking_ of dragons!” Ellison said with a mischievous grin. “Guess what we’ve got planet-side? Three of the little guys. Discovered them while following a Person of Interest. Not the space-going type, probably a good thing that, but we got some samples in from our Covert Ops division the other day. I’m hoping we can clone some.” He held his hand out over the table. “Pygmy versions, obviously. Might make good pets one day. Though mid-sized ones could make effective xeno-cavalry, too. Probably need a few genetic tweaks, though.”

Ayako smirked. “You’ve already got big plans for the planet below, I see.”

Jason nodded, not denying it. “Now that we finally have permission to go through with the uplift, you bet I do! The brass back on Unity were on the fence about it, given how primitive the natives are down there, but once we found signs of latent psionics in the population? In a near-baseline human population? And evidence of Shroud echos? _That_ got attention.”

Commodore Ōtsuka finished of her glass of Arbor Gold and smiled appreciatively. “How long did they give you?”

“Twenty-five to thirty standard years to get them spaceside, then integration, and then…” Ellison chuckled. “Retirement? A nice little villa down below? Or maybe a place on the Habitat they plan to build in-system. Maybe even Governor for a decade, just to make sure things don’t fall apart and the natives don’t start pointing railguns at each other.”

“A _quarter century_ to go from castles to space stations?” Ayako leaned back in her chair and took a long look at the planet beyond and below. “Hard to believe it’ll cause less culture shock than just landing troops and being done with it.”

“If this were the old days, maybe,” Ellison agreed. “That’s what we did on Typhon. But that was before half the galaxy had our number. Don’t forget how loud the complaints were when the Ix’idar invaded that industrial age planet… Yon-Bal, I think? Got them into two wars.”

“True, but the damn grubs were also using the natives as livestock.”

“That, too. Bloody xenos.”

Ayako murmured her agreement at that. The aliens of the galaxy weren’t necessarily the enemies of humanity, but they were certainly not to be trusted. The Commonwealth had some good relations, and even a few aliens as Resident members, but the galaxy seemed to be full of threats: slavers, pirates, insane machine intelligences, fanatic purifiers, eldritch abominations and fallen empires. If the human offshoots on the planet below had latent psionics, as some of them appeared to, then that made them extremely valuable. They had to be brought back into the Commonwealth of Man and raised up to better contribute to the species as a whole. Though how that would play with the ongoing ideological division between those who favored cyberization and those who favored psionics… well, that was a whole other potential mess in the making. One well above either of their pay grades.

“I plan to stick around for a while, Jason,” Ayako said, nonchalant. “I won’t be looming over your shoulder forever, but just a few months to see how you get going on this project. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“Not a problem at all,” Ellison assured her, pouring himself another glass of the native Riesling. While they were both Commodores, Ayako had seniority and was part of the vacuum navy-proper rather than the smaller and more specialized Science Corps. Terros was ‘his’ planet but the star system as a whole was her responsibility.

“So how _do_ you plan to approach this?” she asked, letting him pour her another glass as well.

“We’re having a meeting tomorrow of the various department heads; they’ve been working on some proposals and projections. We have some promising approaches and some good people on the ground. Why don’t you be a fly on the wall and see what we have planned for the future?”

“Very kind of you, Jason. Don’t mind if I do.”

. . .

(2) Jorah

. . .

There was something strange about Zhu Lin, Jorah just couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful or that he wished her ill; the YiTish woman had been a kind and generous companion during their hard trek through the Red Waste. By any measure, she had been a boon. The Red Waste north of Qarth was among Essos’ most barren and unforgiving of landscapes, a fact Jorah himself had not fully grasped when he had advised his Khaleesi to travel across it to Qarth and lands beyond. Yet despite the brutal conditions of the Waste, Zhu Lin’s foreign wisdom – and some whispered, her magic – provided them with ample water and respite even on the hottest of days.

The water, especially, was a life saver. Jorah had no doubt that some among the Khaleesi’s remaining attendants would have died had the foreign woman not been present and willing to render aid. Riding his horse, Jorah stole a glance over where Lady Lin and Daenerys Stormborn rode side-by-side. The water magic seemed to come from one of the many mysterious pouches that hung from her traveler’s saddle. Nor was that all she had given the fallen khalasar.

Their horses themselves had been gifts, or loans, rather, from Lady Lin.

Jorah has first noticed _that_ oddity before Drogo’s death.

The Dothraki, for all their faults, were a horse people who had a modern understanding of the illnesses that could befall their precious mounts. They knew when to isolate a sick animal, when to let it rest and recover, and when to put the animal down to prevent the spread of disease. They understood the necessity of isolating feed stocks and water supplies whenever there was sickness.

For all that, Jorah had taken note of a minor illness spreading among Drogo’s horde, likely picked up from their visit to Vaes Dothrak. Even during the raids against the lhazareen, and despite attempts to treat or contain it, the strange fever had spread. Horses began coughing, their breathing made more difficult through a thick nasal discharge; three or four days later, they became noticeably weaker and uncoordinated, legs frequently spasming or kicking, even when it would cause them to lose balance and fall. Within a week, most horses simply went to sleep and never awoke.

The Dothraki of Drogo’s khalasar had taken to calling it the ‘Lamb’s Curse,’ believing it had originated in the lands of the lhazareen. Jorah’s own horse had eventually caught it as well, even though he had taken pains to keep it separate and away from any of the others. Daenerys’ beautiful white mare had also caught the disease and died.

In fact, by the time they entered the Red Waste and met Lady Lin, _every single horse_ of Essosi stock was sick, and within a week, every single one was dead. _Every single one._ Jorah had never heard of such a thing.

Near their khaleesi, he could see Daenerys’ Dothraki handmaidens and remaining blood riders… they had to _walk_ , for lack of a horse to ride, and the effort left them downcast and despondent, even moreso than being lost in a lifeless desert. For a Dothraki, riding was what separated them from Lamb Men and Milk Men and all the other mundane peoples of Essos. It was a sign of the Great Stallion’s favor and proof of their superiority.

Slaves _walked_. Defeated enemies _walked_. Humbled foreigners _walked_. Dothraki _rode_. Except now, if Jorah Mormont had to guess, there were _a lot_ of Dothraki walking miserably across the Great Grass Sea. All for lack of a horse to ride. He wondered, privately, what they had to think about it and what they would even do about it.

Without horses… what were the Dothraki? Could they even exist, out in the Great Grass Sea?

Without horses, without something to ride, they would not be able to threaten their neighbors, true, but they would also be unable to hunt or trade or even raise livestock and find fresh pasture. Not in their current lands in any rate. Searching his memory, he did recall that there were richer areas – once settled lands – nearby, in old Sarnor or even south among the Lamb Men. Realistically, the lhazareen were about the only people in Essos not likely to want to kill horseless Dothraki on sight. Centuries of being… well… _Dothraki_ , had not exactly endeared them to their neighbors.

Yet, and here the tale came back about to the beginning, because they were riding healthy horses. Lady Lin’s horses. Perhaps the plague had not reached Yi Ti? Yet they had still had a few sick horses with them when they encountered Lady Lin. Jorah himself had pointed this out to her and warned her of the “Lamb’s Curse” as the Dothraki called it. She merely smiled and thanked him for his concern.

She had not been worried, and indeed, her horses seemed hale and hearty.

Either she had the Stranger’s Luck, or…

Jorah shook his head, dispelling such paranoid thoughts. Most likely, the horses of Yi Ti had some means of resisting the plague, or maybe they had just been lucky. Who knew? All the same, Jorah did recall the last letter from Kings Landing. The Spider had warned that “strange things” were afoot, and to keep his eyes open for anything “out of the ordinary.” Yet what did that even mean, in these times? His khaleesi had emerged from a funeral pyre with three dragons! After that, how could anything less be “out of the ordinary?”

Jorah put such thoughts aside, took a spare moment to consider himself fortunate Lin had given him a horse, and focused on the journey. The Red Waste was largely featureless: parched red dunes of cracked dry land, patches of inedible devilgrass that even onagers refused to eat, and the occasional gnarled, emaciated husk of a tree. Every so often, though, there were signs of the people who had once lived here: a pillar or a bit of remining road, a way-sign, or the ancient foundations of stone house. Once upon a time, this wasteland had been fertile and the center of Qaathi civilization.

Jorah’s spirits raised as a hazy shape resolved on the horizon.

It had to be Vaes Tolorro, just as Lady Lin had predicted!

As they closed on the ancient, crumbling white walls, Jorah breathed a sigh of relief. They could rest a time and get their bearings here in this abandoned city. There could even be a well with water for everyone here, perhaps some food that could be gathered. Ruins such as this were havens for animals as well as men, in wastelands such as this.

“…what you must understand, khaleesi, is that vegetation and soil exist together in an equilibrium. When there is an imbalance, it can result in catastrophe, as you see all around you. From what I can see – and from what I have read – the Qaathi people allowed their flocks to over-graze and effectively destroyed the ecosystem here, resulting in a run-away process of erosion.”

“Ecosystem… erosion, I am unfamiliar with these words, Lady Lin.”

“An ‘ecosystem’ merely refers to everything that lives in a certain area: the plants, the animals, and… certain other things as well.”

“Spirits haunt places like this,” Doreah entered the conversation from where she walked, alongside Daenerys’ horse. “It is known.”

“Not _exactly_ what I meant _actually_ , but close enough from a certain point of view,” Lady Lin replied, smiling affectionately at the Dothraki handmaiden. Lady Lin’s YiTish medicine had saved Doreah’s life more than a week ago, an act which had gone even further to endear her to both the Dothraki women and the _khaleesi_ herself.

“Oh! Ser Mormont!” the YiTish woman saw him approach and waved a hand. Just like Doreah, she had a smile and a twinkle in her eyes as she welcomed him into the khaleesi’s circle. She didn’t say anything, but like with Doreah, Lady Lin’s skills had helped with the wound Qotho had left him. It had closed within hours of her applying a strange lotion to it, leaving only the faintest discolored scar; these days he hardly felt it at all, even when riding.

Lady Lin herself was a slight woman with long hair dyed blue amid a sea of black, ‘highlights’ he had heard her describe it to one of the other women. Her skin was pale and clear and unblemished, so much so that Jorah privately thought she had to be a Yi Ti noble of some breeding. She could not have spent much of her life outdoors given her complexion. Her eyes were grey and, apparently, quite keen. She was often among the first to spot something unusual on their journey. Her age was harder to gauge – she appeared to be in her late twenties, despite her knowledge and strange magic, yet Jorah had heard whispers of magic in Asshai that could disguise a woman’s true age. She wore an otherwise unremarkable and unadorned brown traveler’s cloak that typically concealed all but her arms. Beneath that was a plan and functional embroidered tunic, certainly nothing ostentatious or alluring like he had heard the magicians of the east preferred.

“Please join us, Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said, beckoning him over. “It would seem Lady Lin was right about the city.”

“It was merely an educated guess,” Lin insisted with a shrug. “I _have_ been this way before, after all.”

“Khaleesi,” Jorah greeted Daenerys first, and then their newest acquaintance. It was as yet unclear if Lady Lin would part company with them in Qarth or if she intended to follow the Mother of Dragons. “Lady Lin,” Jorah addressed her with a nod of his head.

“As I was saying, Daenerys-” Lin clearly felt comfortable enough to call her by her name alone. “Once the ground cover dwindled, it was only a matter of time before the wind blew away the topsoil. After years of this, only the lower layers were left, leaving what we call ‘hardpan.’ In this region, the final transformation must have been quite abrupt… most likely exacerbated by the eruptions that destroyed Valyria. Ash from that would have fallen over this entire area. The cities and towns clearly remained for a time…”

Jorah watched and listened, paying attention to Daenerys.

He had to remind himself just how young the khaleesi was, and how few role models – especially female ones – she must have had. In the short time she had been among them, she had done her best to learn from the Dosh Khaleen. Now, she seemed utterly entranced by Lady Lin and her knowledge and stories, to say nothing of the many wonders she seemed to have in her bags.

While Lady Lin continued her explanation of erosion – Jorah heard little new there – he noticed the khaleesi nibbling on one of the strange pack rations that Lady Lin occasionally shared. They were rectangular and wrapped in wax paper, but surprisingly moist and delicious with dried grapes and an unusual flavor Jorah could not place. Daenerys clearly loved them, and Lady Lin insisted she eat to maintain her weight and her health, though she had been vocal about the young woman breastfeeding dragons, doubting that mother’s milk “made up their diet in the wild” and “when was the last time you saw a dragon with teats?”

Jorah would not disagree on that count.

Daenerys disagreed, however, and persisted in the activity, so that was that. All the same, Jorah shuddered to imagine how the march across the Red Waste would have affected the young Mother of Dragons had they not met Lady Lin. The snacks and other treats had kept Daenerys fit and well, despite the trauma she had been through. He himself had eaten one of the bars on occasion and couldn’t help but be a little amazed. They were delicious. If the whole YiTish army had pack rations like that, their men probably went to war with a skip and a spring in their step.

Food aside, Daenerys was listening with rapt attention as Lady Lin explained how, hypothetically, the Red Waste could be transformed into a fertile land once more. This, Jorah paid some more attention to out of personal curiosity as well. Lin talked about rebuilding “soil crusts” with a mixture of imported peat and gravel and grasses, grown in checkerboard patterns, re-seeding and replacing shrubs and erecting trees as wind-breakers… some of it Jorah followed and understood from what the maester of Bear Island had taught him as a child, but if nothing else the scale of what Lady Lin described would be too enormous for any people to actually attempt it.

“You never know, khaleesi,” Lin concluded with a secretive smile. “One day you may revisit this land and find olive trees and vineyards as far as the eye can see.”

Doreah took objection to this, however. “If this land were green, _koalakeesi_ , the khalasars would ride upon it. It would not be a place for Milk Men.”

For just a moment, Jorah saw something cold in Lady Lin’s normally affable expression. But it came and went in a heartbeat.

“We shall see,” she promised, instead. Then she turned to the looming city.

“It will be good to rest for a time,” Daenerys said, in the silence that followed. She, too, had her eyes on the city ahead. “Too many have been lost on this march as it is.”

Perhaps so, Jorah thought to himself, but many of the deaths had been inevitable: the old, the sick, the stupid (why would anyone try and handle a scorpion with bare hands?), as it was, very few able-bodied men and women had chosen to remain with Daenerys rather than join a rival khalasar first after Drogo’s fall from grace and then, in the end, his death in bed. Daenerys called their band of refugees a khalasar, but the only true fighting men of any note were himself and the bloodriders Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo. Perhaps one in four of those they had entered the Wastes with had died. Having the horses all die on them had not helped matters either.

It was another bit of luck to find that Vaes Tolorro was surprisingly well stocked to support them.

Honestly, Jorah had not known what to expect from the deserted and windblown ruin. Despite being visually impressive, in a stark and white-washed way, he had not had high hopes for finding much there. Yet within minutes of arriving, Lady Lin had quickly found them the first of three city wells with clean, cool water. Scouting parties returned soon after with figs and wrinkled grapes from long abandoned and overgrown city gardens. The latter reminded Jorah of what Lady Lin had predicted: that one day, perhaps, in the distant future, this land could be reclaimed and that quiet vineyards would dot the hills instead of parched wasteland. He had to admit, it was a nice dream and a pretty picture, if only to nurture in one’s imagination.

Finding a particularly juicy peach, the former Lord of Bear Island sought out his khaleesi to deliver the treat as a gift. He found her in her tent by the empty pedestal in what had once been the center of the city. Irri and Jhiqui had complained earlier about ghosts in the city and though Irri was not around at the moment, Jorah overheard Jhiqui repeating her concerns. Jorah found it almost ironic. The city was dust and there were bones in the streets because of the Dothraki. Perhaps there would be fewer angry spirits looking for Dothraki victims if the Dothraki themselves stopped destroying cities in the first place. Not that this was a thought worth sharing at the moment. Besides, in his experience the real ghosts didn’t haunt dead cities; they followed their victims and lived in men’s hearts, not in what they left behind.

Sitting down with Daenerys, Jorah soon found himself sharing some of his thoughts on the matter with her… and then, before he knew it, sharing some of the tale of his second wife. _Lynesse Hightower_. There was a name he had not thought of in some time. It was something he was fortunate for, in truth. Lynesse had brought nothing but ruin to his life, though the thought that Mace Tyrell was still his goodbrother in some fashion brought a moment’s wry amusement.

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said, surprising him as he was about to take his leave. “The wound on your leg… is it truly gone?”

He nodded somberly. “It is. Lady Lin’s medicine is more potent than any I’ve seen before.”

Daenerys was also subdued and deep in thought. She glanced up at him, looking worried. “Irri fears she is a maegi, like Mirri Maz Duur.”

She _would_ , though Lady Lin had thus far displayed little more than the same sort of herbal lore that Dothraki would expect of their own wise women. When asked about her magic, once, Jorah recalled the YiTish woman had scoffed and claimed she didn’t “have enough black make-up” to be a maegi.

Jorah was reasonably certain she was… something else, but not like Mirri Maz Duur.

 _Still_. “I would be careful around her, khaleesi,” he advised. For a second, he thought to leave it as that, a simple warning, but like with Lynesse he found his stray thoughts percolating up and leaving his mouth before considering whether to truly share them or not.

“It may be that Lady Lin is a simple traveler, or, as she says, on a trip to gather knowledge of strange lands-” And was that not what he himself had suggested to Daenerys, not long ago, to see the world and wonders yet unseen? “Yet her manner strikes me as that of an educated and high-born woman. Could it be just as plausible that she is an agent of the Azure Emperor, here to spy on us? If she were to extend an invitation to Yin, would you not be more inclined to consider it now than you were before you met?”

Daenerys turned away, towards the three cages were her infant dragons slept.

“I trusted Mirri Maz Duur,” she lamented, softly, but with a hard edge that crept in at the end. “That was a mistake, but surely it would just as great a mistake ever to trust anyone again. I will need wise council, Ser Jorah. I will need it now, more than ever.”

“You can trust _me_ , khaleesi,” he said the words and immediately regretted it. His arms stiffened and he forced them to his sides. He didn’t want her to know--

“I know, Ser, and I do,” she answered him with a warm smile and trusting eyes. Jorah felt like kicking himself. He also decided, then and there, to send one last letter to the Spider informing him that their arrangement was at an end. To make things worse, he also decided to spice it up a little by mentioning Lady Lin. Let the Spider fret about what was and wasn’t “out of the ordinary.”

Thankfully, Jorah found the excuse to leave before things got too awkward. At least he was reasonably confident that Daenerys still didn’t see his feelings for her. Through it all, he still doubted they would be reciprocated, so it was really better that it was kept to himself. Otherwise things could turn tense, she could even start avoiding him and he wasn’t sure he could bear that.

“Oh! Ser Mormont!”

Jorah paused, some yards from the khaleesi’s tent. He knew that voice. “Lady Lin?”

The YiTish woman had a book in her hand, and some sort of writing instrument. He had seen it before. It was no pen; instead it appeared to be a hollow reed with black chalk inside. It was quite clever, actually, but then the YiTish were always said to be an advanced people.

“Something came up in… in my studies,” she said, hastily, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him away. “I have some questions about Bear Island and the history of the Mormonts. Specifically, regarding the last time your house intermarried with House Stark.”

“The Starks?” Jorah bristled, but it didn’t seem as if Lady Lin cared much about recent history. “Why do you ask?”

“Studies, Ser Mormont,” Lin answered, quickly closing her book around her chalk-pen before he could see what was inside. Instead, she pulled out one of her travel rations. It was a distraction, Jorah knew, but that didn’t mean it didn’t work.

“A few questions and I’ll trade you one of these!” she promised with a wide smile. “What do you say?”

It only took a moment for him to make up his mind. “Very well. Ask your questions, my Lady.”

“Good! The last time you intermarried with the Starks?”

“That was… no, the last time was Alys Stark, my grandfather’s grandmother… around the time of the Dance of Dragons…”

“And before that?”

“Only once, I believe…”

Other questions followed. A few were about the Starks. A few about the Children of the Forest. A few about the Wildlings, of all things. Lady Lin explained she was interested in what she called “pheno-type” which was a word Jorah had never heard before, in any language. She was also interested in confirming her notes on Daenerys’ own lineage. Perhaps she was interested in constructing family trees of Westerosi nobility, yet she seemed only interested in a few particular aspects of their lineage. The Blackwoods were also a family of note for her, which was _doubly strange_ as Jorah would have expected them to be entirely obscure in Essosi circles.

At least she was true to her word and let him have the travel ration when she was done.

A strange woman, that Lady Lin.

 

 

 

. . .

(3) Talisa

. . .

The Crag

Despite being the ancestral home of the Westerlings, the Crag was not a particularly imposing or impressive castle. In part, that was due to half of it being allowed to deteriorate for lack of funds. What little gold that had once been in the nearby hills was long since depleted, and even then it had been something of a poisoned pill. Casterly Rock exercised tight control over the value of gold and silver in the Westerlands, the better to prevent a glut in the market leading to inflation. As a consequence, while the stout walls of the Crag had been fully staffed and ready to put up a fight by the time Robb stormed them, the area beneath was abandoned and unused more often than not.

Slipping out of bed, Talisa Maegyr let the sheets fall away from her body to gather up her clothes from the floor. She moved carefully and quietly, sparing only a quick glance or two back at the bed to make sure her absence was not felt. Robb muttered in his sleep, still troubled by the news from Winterfell and Riverrun. That, or perhaps he was escaping reality a little by skin-changing into his wolf. Not for the first time, she had difficulty imagining this young man was just a teenager – a teenager responsible for the fate of his nation; a teenager witnessing the destruction of his family, piece by bloody piece.

‘ _This was a mistake_ ,’ she thought, but shook her head. There was no point obsessing over it. It had happened. The past could not be changed, and if it _could_ it certainly wouldn’t be wasted on something as frivolous as a one night stand.

Slipping back into her clothes, she sighed softly at the familiar feeling. ‘ _Good_.’

Making her way to the door, she paused, looking back at the young King on the bed, considering whether to come back or not. Disappearing entirely had a certain appeal. It wasn’t as if she had _planned_ to seduce the boy or to sleep with him, though the thought had crossed her mind with increasing frequency the last month. He was undeniably handsome and the men of Westeros seemed to mature much faster than their counterparts elsewhere, physically if not mentally. Getting close to him had been a priority, staying close to him another, ensuring his health a must, but this was probably taking it too far. Still, she remembered how nice it had felt to talk to him, to hear him speak of the burdens he faced, and she remembered how her heart had gone out to him when he reluctantly opened-up about the tragedies that seemed to befall his family, time and again.

If she vanished tonight, what would he think? Moreover, was it even a possibility? She wasn’t in Westeros to sight-see, after all. And there were many wounded men that still needed caring for; human lives that hung in the balance, lives that would be lost if left to the Maesters and battlefield amateurs of Robb’s Northern Army.

Just the same, she doubted that morning would come tomorrow and that would be the end of it. From what she knew of him, Robb was fussy about his honor – implacable at trying to live up to his famous father’s code of conduct. It made him inflexible… though there was something undeniably romantic about him trying so hard to retain his moral rectitude in the face of impossible odds. The point being, however, that he would almost certainly not see this as a one-off night of passion or even a bit of fun between new friends during trying times. Things would have been easier in a lot of ways if he had, though had he been that sort of man then she probably wouldn’t have slept with him to begin with, so the logic was rather circular.

No: there was nothing for it. Vanishing into the night wasn’t a viable alternative, not in light of her responsibilities, and if she was honest, it wasn’t what she wanted to do personally either, rationality aside. Trying to pass things off as a fling would be ill-received; he would feel her honor had been besmirched, and any attempt to come off otherwise would have her appear as a strumpet or tawdry woman. Not that she would normally care even then, but it would interfere with her duties and poison their working relationship just as surely as anything else. There was little to do but stick with it and remain until morning. Perhaps things could still organically develop and remain low-key.

Mind made up, Talisa nodded to herself and slipped out of the King’s chambers, past the guard on duty.

Wrapping a coat over her shoulders as she walked, the foreign woman in Westeros made her way down a flight of steps, intending to end up in the courtyard below. Though walking at a brisk pace, she was not oblivious to the pair of eyes watching her. Jeyne Westerling was not exactly trained in the art of stealth. Nor was this the only time Talisa had caught her milling about.

Jeyne was a small girl, the daughter of the lord of the Crag, himself Robb’s prisoner from the Battle of the Whispering Wood. Slight of frame with a delicate heart shaped face, she was young enough to be Talisa’s younger sister. She had insisted on helping out with the wounded and Talisa had taken her under her wing in that respect – the girl even seemed genuinely fascinated by the way the foreign woman could save lives with a skill that impressed even the Maesters. She wanted to learn more, that much was clear, but just as clear was the fact that she also wanted to get close to the King in the North. Talisa supposed she couldn’t blame her… or her family for probably putting her up to it.

Well, if there was one good thing to come of this, it would be nipping that problem in the bud.

Her prying eyes were less welcome now, though. Stepping out into the darkness of the courtyard, Talisa turned, narrowing her eyes. It took a moment as the colors shifted, but she could see the daughter of the Crag had stopped by an arrow slit in the tower, nearly invisible to the naked eye. She didn’t seem to go further and ducked away a second or two later.

Talisa resumed her walk, ostensibly to stretch her legs or to enjoy the cool night air. _En route_ to an empty section of crumbling wall, she reached into her sleeves and retrieved the package. It fit snugly into a thin strip of metal. Putting the beacon down on a nearby rock, she turned around and waited.

The drone arrived a minute later, drawn by the pulsing infrared-strobe. Small and round, it was a transport drone designed for sensitive cargo and would do little to blend in on this world. Luckily, it would come and go within moments, and was all but invisible at night. It would return the sample to the Command Drone loitering in the upper atmosphere and from there another would ferry it into orbit.

Text appeared in her vision, a query to establish contact.

Talisa nodded to herself and gave the sub-vocal command. It was a quirk of human biology, intrinsic to humans both on and off-Terros: when people thought about words, or when they were silently reading, their throat muscles moved even if they had no intention of speaking. The phenomenon was known as subvocalization. With a little training, and a few imbedded sensors (they didn’t even have to be subdermal), it was trivial to use the technique to communicate silently. Especially when combined with a cochlear implant that could directly stimulate the bones of the ear to produce sounds inaudible to anyone, even inches away. Some dubbed the communications technology ‘synthetic telepathy’ but it was perfectly mundane. Those who objected to it typically did so out of a disdain towards synthetic ascensionists in general.

‘Package is away,’ she _thought_ the words in the right manner to make her sub-vocalization crystal clear. ‘The biosamples are positive, but out of the one hundred and sixty-eight soldiers I’ve treated in this division of the Northern Army, I have not found even one additional individual with an ability similar to his. Projections are that it may manifest in less than one in ten-thousand, but it may exist more commonly in a dormant state among the general population. I will continue gathering samples and I will continue to watch over Subject Gamma and his dire wolf.’

‘To that effect,’ she continued, looking around the empty courtyard. To anyone watching her, it would simply appear as if she was leaning back and enjoying the night in perfect silence. ‘I have concluded my tagging of Subject Gamma as follows: two nail-bed intrusions in both index fingers with composite identification code, one real-time physiological monitor and positioning stat embedded in the C6 vertebrae, one medical column delivered orally and effective for six months operational lifetime, one bio-tag in the scapha of the right ear.’

Robb wouldn’t be getting dysentery and abruptly dying on the Xenosciences Division anytime soon. Though… the Northern Army seemed quite sophisticated when it came to policing itself in terms of battlefield hygiene. Surprisingly few men had been lost to disease attrition thus far. You could thank the Maesters for that knowledge being commonplace. All the same, there were many little things that could kill a man on the march long before he even saw combat. The Stark family in general were too valuable now to risk to such vagaries.

‘ _As if I didn’t add to those problems just tonight_ ,’ Talisa thought, but in such a way that she kept those thoughts private. To the sub-vocalizer, it would just be an incomprehensible murmur.

‘Report continues: Subject Gamma sustained minor injuries in a recent battle over the fortification designated The Crag. I have seen to his recovery personally…’

For a moment, Talisa contemplated ending the update there.

But her training kicked in. ‘Notice to xenosciences division. Closeness to Subject Gamma maintained. Within last twelve hours, have engaged in sexual intercourse with Subject Gamma as part of ongoing caretaker assignment. I understand this action is outside the operating protocols laid out by my assignment, but the situation spun rather quickly out of control. At the least, this could ensure continued access to Gamma and well as more access to the Northern Army for sampling and experimental purposes. Send.’

She left it at that.

There was more to say, more to try and justify what she did, but for now she decided to test the waters and see what command had to say and if they recalled her on the spot or if they let things play out. The latter was far from implausible. There were agents trained for that sort of work. She wasn’t one of them, but they did exist. It wasn’t like it was taboo, it was just not part of her original mandate.

She, and others like her, were being sent to monitor individuals of particular importance to the planned uplift. In the process, and if it did not interfere, they were to continue general information gathering and even conduct a little clandestine testing or experimentation on the locals. But first and foremost, they were there to keep an eye on certain natives and make sure nothing happened to them, second, they were expected to become close and trusted advisors with a degree of influence or control over said natives. Talisa had been conducting her mission with a mind towards the latter when all this happened.

Sighing, she slowly massaged her temples, wondering what the other agents were up to.

‘Request: expanded access to orbital network. Location: Grid, fifty-six degrees latitude, negative five degrees longitude.’

In her eye, she quickly received an orbital picture of a forested landscape, divided by grid squares, one hundred kilometers wide and one hundred kilometers long. It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it was a location she had scouted before.

‘Zoom. Grid 10E.’

The bird’s eye view zoomed in, revealing a large smoldering castle.

Winterfell.

An annoyed grumble slipped between her lips. So, it was all true. The Ironborn had sacked Winterfell – and raided the Winter Town as well – under the direction of Theon Greyjoy. There was little else to do beyond looking, though. She had no resources of her own up there.

Talisa called up another set of coordinates. Riverrun. Robb had speculated that Jaime Lannister and the outlaw Brienne of Tarth had tried to escape by boat. It was the fastest mode of travel on this planet. There was little that could be done for Brandon and Rickon up north, not from where she was here and now, but xenosciences would almost certainly be looking into them. Subjects Zeta and Eta were valuable latent psionics. Thinking about it, it was actually quite possible they had been secreted away by Covert Ops when the Ironborn took the castle. If xenosciences had to pick between retaining a living “warg” and killing a thousand worthless natives, they’d undoubtedly pick the former, in a heartbeat. Such was their value to the Commonwealth.

The Starks were the only family of psionics yet found on Terros.

‘Query: request update on Subjects Zeta, Eta.’

As far as Talisa knew, Delta was still in Kings Landing. Epsilon had been picked up by Covert Ops, since xenosciences feared for her safety alone and on the road. They had received a notice about that a while back. Whether that meant she was still in the field in some fashion, put on ice, or even whisked away into orbit… Talisa didn’t know. She definitely wouldn’t be dead, or captured, as Robb and his mother thought.

Her request returned ‘pending authorization.’ _Oh well_.

Continuing her search through the Riverlands, Talisa couldn’t help but grumble at what was effectively trying to find a needle in a haystack. Loitering and low-orbital recon was good enough to pick out small fires from camps and even to count the number of men in a given camp with long-range thermographic imaging… but there was no way to tell man from woman, or who any of the shapes below actually were. She did pause a second, though, finding that huge wolf-pack that had made the rounds of the Army rumor mill. But that was neither here nor there. No, finding them this way would be all but impossible.

If only someone had put a tag on them! It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to slip a tracker into Jaime’s food. He was a person of interest. It would’ve been justified to keep an eye on him. Except, of course, that she was with the Army and not at Riverrun. There _were_ no agents at Riverrun. Limited manpower! It was an inevitable consequence of running ops across an entire planet. From what she’d heard, Essos was an even bigger mess.

‘Terminate connection. Send all. Receive all.’

Messages left on her account came in and she quickly reviewed them. Xenosciences would probably send something along in a few hours once they ran some projections on the station’s quantum computer. Her business basically done, Talisa began the slow walk back to the tower.

She was just getting on her way when a crow cawed loudly, flapping its wings.

“Hm?” she glanced up at the noisy bird. “You’re not one of ours, are you little guy?”

A quick look on infrared confirmed it was flesh and blood, so… just another dumb bird then. Yet it seemed to be watching her rather intently. Granted, that was what birds _did_. So why did _this one_ seem just a little bit odd?

She opted to ignore it and kept walking, seeing no sign of little Jeyne Westerling. There were, however, a pair of guards who saw her, huddled by a fire on a section of crenelated wall. Despite the darkness, she could see their livery: Frey. She’d reattached the nerves on a Frey boy just last morning; kept him from losing his hand. But their little House had a certain reputation among the people of the Army, both common and noble. It would be wise to watch them, just in case.

Before long, she was back in the King’s chambers.

Stripping back down, but before getting back into bed, the foreign woman took a moment to examine her body. Robb naturally had no idea who she was beneath the surface. What would he think or say, she wondered, if he saw the circuitry in her eye or the implants in her chest cavity or polymer that laced her bones? This man who could jump into the mind of his wolf. Would he consider her a demon in the body of a woman?

Well, it didn’t matter, not yet anyway… but maybe it would, sometime down the road.

‘ _Talisa Maegyr of Volantis_ ,’ she thought, as she crawled under the covers. ‘ _A character we invented. One with a background no one here would question._ ’ Rolling over to face Robb, still asleep, she frowned. ‘ _You believed that story I told you about the slave using CPR, though you clearly had no idea what it actually was. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the real story. Though there_ **was** _a robot in the real version, so it may be a while before you can wrap your head about that part...’_

 

 

 

. . .

(4) Jon

. . .

The Halfhand was clearly not going to make this easy, for all that the outcome of their duel had been decided beforehand. The lightly falling snow circled the pair of Nights Watch rangers as they exchanged another set of blows, Jon’s eye more on striking his opponent’s sword in a suitably impressive way than actually moving in to lethally do damage. For a moment, in the brief exchange of blows, it reminded Jon of the earliest days of play-fighting with Robb back in Winterfell, before they learned better…

That fond memory lasted up until Qhorin’s blade nicked Jon’s cheek. The young ranger winced and understood the message: stop fucking around and fight for real; they’re wildlings but they can tell when someone is putting on a mummer’s farce. Jon suspected that if the fight had been for real, that blow would’ve opened his cheek and half his face instead of gracefully leaving a little line of blood. The Halfhand could’ve probably killed him three or four times already since they began.

But did the man think it would be that easy to kill a sworn brother, despite what they had talked about before? It was one thing to plan to “do whatever was necessary” to infiltrate the Wildling ranks, and there was no denying that the situation was dire, but actually killing an honorable man, a _brother of the Watch_ … would the others at Castle Black ever forgive it? Could he forgive himself for it? How could you uphold your vows by breaking them?

_What would Ned Stark have done?_

Between the jeers and the japes, the wildlings were watching them carefully, especially their leader, the one called the “Lord of Bones.” The sight of the two crows trying to kill one another must’ve been just the spectacle that Qhorin had hoped for and gambled on. Pressed to fight, feeling the hostile eyes of the wildlings on him, Jon parried a blow and took a serious lunge at the other ranger. Qhorin nimbly pivoted out of the way of it, but he smiled, recognizing that at last Jon appeared to be taking his responsibility to the Watch seriously. In his eyes, Jon saw the old ranger egging him on, encouraging him to try again. One or two more, perhaps, and then he would let the blow connect and it would be over.

Or so Jon thought, as Qhorin pulled back to deliver another potentially deadly blow. He would hold back just enough, Jon knew… and hoped. Yet the blow never came, even in mummer’s form. Instead, the Halfhand stumbled backwards with a ring of steel-on-steel.

In his right hand, trembling like the wind, his sword had been sheared of the top half, the castle-forged steel now ending not in a tapering tip but in an abrupt blunt end.

“Excuse me, but I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

The tone was undeniably foreign, but the words were Westerosi, without the hint of a Free Folk inflection or accent. Jon turned, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, another part of rangers had found them. Though even if they had, that wouldn’t begin to explain what happened to the Halfhand’s sword.

Instead of a party of rangers, however, there was just a single man.

He stood in the slowly falling snow, a dusting of white on his shoulders as if he had been standing around and watching for a brief time. With dark hair, neatly combed and cut, higher at the top than the sides, grey eyes and a clean-shaven chin, he seemed entirely unremarkable and utterly out of place in the Lands Beyond the Wall. He was neither very tall nor particularly short, neither stout nor thin, entirely unthreatening. Jon reckoned the man the sort he might pass in Wintertown and never recall later in the day. His dress was more remarkable: he wore a thick fur coat, all in black, like a man of the Watch… except the coat itself was of high quality and superb craftsmanship with fine brass buttons and clean stitching. Even the fur was of an entirely uniform color, almost unnaturally so. He seemed to barely feel the wind or the cold or the snow as he stood there, a few paces away, his hands at his sides.

“Who the fuck is this?” the Lord of Bones summed up the thoughts of Free Folk and Nights Watch alike.

“Get out of here! Run!” Jon yelled, reacting to the unexpected appearance of the man faster than the others. With a step, he tried to better position himself between the hapless newcomer and the wildling band.

“I can’t leave without a few things,” the man said, simply. He didn’t sound worried. “Jon Snow. This isn’t where you die.”

‘ _No, it isn’t!_ ’ Jon felt the urge to yell. But this was where Qhorin Halfhand and the honor of a man called Jon Snow would die and be left to rot in the snow.

But then a question rose up, as his mind processed what the stranger had said.

“Me?” Jon asked, risking only a moment’s glance back at the man.

“Would you like to live, Jon Snow? Then come with me.” There was a pause. “The wolf, too. Ghost. My associates want you both out of the North for the time being.”

John didn’t have eyes on the stranger, but he could see the Wildlings tensing and starting to spread out. This was bad. Before, they had been willing to watch and enjoy the spectacle as the two crows went at one another. Now the amusement was turning into anger and confusion. John saw movement behind the giant’s skull worn by the so-called Lord of Bones as the man blinked against the cold and started to speak.

“Enough’a this! Kill this fool!” he roared. “An’ kill t’ese crows!”

John cursed inwardly, his body moving to stand alongside the Halfhand and protect this foolish new stranger. How he knew who Jon was didn’t matter if they were all killed--

What happened next, happened in a blur. The only one of the wildlings with a bow was Ygritte and she didn’t hesitate to nock an arrow and loose it at the stranger. Yet no sooner had it left her bow than another loud crack split the air. Just like before, when Qhorin’s sword had been broken.

This time, it broke Ygritte’s hand instead.

For just a split second, Jon could see a reddish-white light appear over her left hand, the one holding her bow. Her arrow, just loosed, was already tumbling away as if it had been misfired terribly, except broken in two pieces. Her hand, though… her hand simply exploded, like Old Nan’s tales of wildfire. Fingers and bits of bloody bone flew through the air; one hit Jon square in the cheek hard enough to hurt, smearing her blood over half his face.

Jon staggered backwards, almost losing his balance in shock.

Qhorin, too, seemed at a loss, for all his age and experience.

The Wildlings, on the verge of charging them, abruptly froze. Jon could see the confusion in their faces at war with their anger and indignation. They would not, could not, just let them go. Qhorin’s plan had required a sacrifice to save one of them. Blood would need to be exchanged for more blood. Such was the way of the North Beyond the Wall.

“None of you are skinchangers, are you?” the Stranger asked, the soft crunch of his feet almost thundering as he casually walked between Jon and the Free Folk that had captured him. On the ground, Ygritte was clutching her hand, only just realizing what had happened to her, and screaming in pain.

“If not, then I have no reason not to kill you,” the man continued, hands still at his sides. “Take the wounded woman and go.”

Jon turned to Qhorin for direction and saw the old man nod. It seemed he planned to play along, for now. If this man was here to help, maybe it was best to let him help. Whatever trick he had used put the fear of the Old Gods into the wildlings… and into Jon, too, if he were being honest. Was it some sort of hidden crossbow? Yet it had struck down Ygritte even as she loosed an arrow, perhaps even knocked down her own shaft mid-flight. Jon tried not to dwell on the sight of her, writhing on the ground and curled into a bloody ball.

Finally, Rattleshirt seemed to take the measure of the situation, seeing his men looking to him for guidance and courage… or the excuse to run. The wildling raider denied them the latter.

“You think some fancy _crow_ with a fancy _trick_ is goin’ta stop all o’ us?” Rattleshirt sneered, gesturing to the men at his right. They began to fan out, to try and encircle the three men in black. Ghost, too, had ended up caught in the circle, a growl on his curled lips.

The Stranger all but ignored them.

“Jon Snow,” he said, and glanced back at him, “If I assist you here and return Ser Qhorin to the Watch, will you come with me without protest? You can consider yourself a representative for the Night’s Watch if you like. I’m afraid that after intervening like this, my associates will need to detain you for a few months.”

Jon bristled slightly at what sounded like his own consent to capture. First the wildlings, and now this?

“You can meet up with Arya Stark,” the Stranger added, his eyes drifting back to Rattleshirt and the wildlings. “We have taken her into our protection already. She still has that sword you gave her. Needle.”

He knew about that? _How?_

For a moment, hope burned in Jon’s chest, not only that he could escape the North with his life and honor intact, but that his half-sisters were also safe in the South. The last he had heard, they had been prisoners at King’s Landing, at the mercy of _King_ Joffrey. Maybe it was naïve, but if this man and his mysterious associates had rescued Arya and learned of Needle – such a trivial thing, but something Arya would only share with those she trusted – then maybe…

Rattleshirt lunged and the wildlings encircling them followed his lead.

The Stranger grumbled, but then suddenly moved as a shrill screech filled the air. _The eagle!_

More than just a wild animal, it timed the attack with the closing circle of wildlings, swooping down at Jon specifically. Throwing up his left arm to protect his face, he saw the Stranger move even more quickly, grabbing the huge bird out of midair. The eagle screamed and clawed at the man’s arm with hooked talons even as his hand clamped around its chest and throat like a vice. Yet the talons could not puncture the man’s strange black sleeves, instead snagging and pulling and finally ripping out of the bird’s feet.

“A skinchanger!?” the Stranger finally sounded excited, focusing more on the bird than the attacking wildlings. Yet his magic did not seem to mind his distraction.

One of Rattleshirt’s men, faster than the others, closed in on them and drew the Stranger’s ire first. The crack split the air again, Jon saw the white light appear briefly over the howling man’s forehead… and then it exploded, just like Ygritte’s hand. The force of the blow twisted the man’s head around even as his legs kept pumping, running, driving him forward while his brains tumbled out of the massive hole in his forehead in a bright red arc.

Not seeing it, or not wanting to see it, the other wildlings kept charging. The one to Rattleshirt’s right died next. It was just like before. His forehead burned for a split second and then erupted. There was no projectile Jon could see, nor was the Stranger even looking in that direction. He seemed entirely occupied subduing the enraged eagle that had come out of nowhere to attack them.

Another crack, and another man died.

One more, and a man perhaps a yard away died before he could finish his warcry.

Within instants, there were just two, as Rattleshirt himself – the Lord of Bones – was treated no differently than his men. His giant’s skull helm proved only a minor impediment. It exploded at the Stranger’s magical command, but that did nothing to protect the man beneath it. Rattleshirt alone had time to yelp as the force of the blow send him stumbling backwards as if struck by King Robert’s famous warhammer.

The last two wildlings, already growing to realize their party had just been annihilated, hesitated. Jon and Qhorin Halfhand did not. Longclaw cut through air and leather and fur and hide with equal ease. Jon lunged and buried it in the chest of a man with a huge stone club. Pulling the sword back, he saw that Qhorin had also dispatched a man with a stolen steel sword; he was already cleaning the edge of his blade with part of his black cloak. Jon followed suit a moment later. Valyrian steel was famously resistant, even to rust and blood, but it could still ruin a scabbard. Fastidiousness was a good habit to have when using a sword, Rodrick Cassel had drilled that into them years ago.

Just like that, then, it was over.

“Damnit all.”

It was the Stranger. He still held the eagle in his right hand, but now it was limp. Dead. The loss of it seemed to upset the strange man. Slowly, he turned to face the two rangers. While initially frowning in disappointment, he soon smiled in an amiable fashion. His eyes darted from the Halfhand, to Jon, and then to Ghost, who still seemed to be alert and watching the woods nearby, his ears perked up.

“Unfortunate business, but probably inevitable,” the Stranger said, his smile never wavering. Jon felt his cheek burn, remembering where that piece of Ygritte’s hand had hit him. In that moment, it was clearer than ever: this man was as good as the Stranger himself. If he wanted them dead, even this close, they would be dead. “Now, with that done-”

Stranger in the flesh he may be, he was wrong. They weren’t done.

Ygritte choose that moment to pull herself together enough to realize her entire band was gone. The first man to be killed was not far from her, the gaping hole in his head steaming in the frigid air. She screamed. First in horror, perhaps at the sight of it, and then in panic as her situation became more and more obvious.

The Stranger tensed, and Jon could imagine that momentary glow appearing on her forehead.

“Wait!” he blurted out. “You mentioned Arya?”

“I did,” the stranger answered, ignoring the terrified Ygritte for a conversation he felt more worth his time. He reached into his cloak and, after a moment, pulled out what appeared to be a strange transparent bag of some sort. It didn’t seem to be any material Jon had ever seen before. Kneeling down, the Stranger pulled it open and slipped the eagle inside the curious nearly-invisible bag.

“We picked up Arya outside King’s Landing,” he explained while he bagged the skinchanger’s animal. “For the time being, my associates prefer to remain clandestine. This is why I followed you from a distance and only stepped in to intervene when it appeared you were going to die.”

If true, it was ironic, in a way. This man _hadn’t_ truly saved the life of Jon Snow, but _Qhorin Halfhand_. Thank the Gods, though, Old and New! He had been saved from having to kill a brother of the Watch! More than that, Jon was still not even all that confident that he could convincingly pull off the Halfhand’s deception and pretend to turn cloaks for Mance Rayder and his wildlings. Jon Snow was many things, a bastard included, but skilled in the arts of deception was not one of them, and he knew it. More likely the King Beyond the Wall would have caught him in his first poorly told lie and had him killed in some suitably terrible fashion. Then poor Ghost would’ve been turned into some wildling’s cloak, like the Lord of Bones had joked about doing time and again.

Still, this man, this _Stranger_ …

He could’ve intervened before, when more of his sworn brothers had been alive. On thinking of it, Jon reckoned this man would’ve probably done nothing to step in if Qhorin had looked like he was losing instead of winning their little fight. Would he have truly shadowed him even after that, all the way to the camp of the wildling army? Or would he have been more discrete and tried to secret Jon away in the night while Rattleshirt and his ilk were asleep?

Considering all this, Jon found himself truthfully grateful for the Stranger’s intervention… but still quite terrified of him as a man, if he was even a man. Either way, he couldn’t be entirely trusted. Not until Jon saw Arya safe and sound. _Only then_.

And then there was the Night’s Watch itself.

“What about Sansa?” Jon asked softly; the Stranger had mentioned preferring to act clandestinely, but maybe with _this sort of power_ …

“We are aware of Lady Sansa’s situation,” the Stranger answered, pressing something on the bag that caused it to contract and seal up around the eagle inside. It then stiffened, and the man picked up the oddly frozen bird by the bag’s handle. “You may also want to know that there had been an altercation at Winterfell rather recently. The castle was attacked and burned by a raiding party under Theon Greyjoy.”

_Gods! Greyjoy?!_

“Given the situation, we took your brothers there into our care, along with their wolves.”

Jon Snow let out a ragged breath that turned to ice in the frozen air. _So that was how it was?_

Maybe the Gods _were_ looking out for them! In a way. But why only save his brothers and their _wolves?_ Jon was grateful, certainly, if the tale was true, but with the power this Stranger had, surely, they could have saved the whole castle? All the people? Such a feat would have been within the power of men like the Stranger. Why prioritize direwolves over women and children?

A sudden metallic _clang_ broke Jon’s train of thought, along with the sound of splintering wood.

“Annoying woman,” the Stranger muttered, looking back over his shoulder. Near where she had first fallen, Ygritte had managed to get back on her feet. From the way she stood, wide-eyed, her arm still extended, Jon could guess that she had picked up the fallen man’s spear and thrown it at the Stranger’s back. To no avail. It had been deflected just like the arrow, intercepted mid-air.

“Ygritte,” Jon yelled. “Get out of here! There’s nothing you can do!”

With a bloody smile, crooked but determined, so much like he remembered from their talks before, Jon knew her mind was already made up, and like before, she didn’t plan to take his advice. “You,” she said breathily, pulling out a knife from her leggings. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“Hm.” The Stranger barely seemed to pay her any mind. “We were having an important conversation, here.”

“Why are you helping these crows?” Ygritte snarled, stumbling forward and clutching her blasted stump of a hand to her chest. “Who are you?!”

“Jon Snow’s life was endangered because of your group,” The Stranger explained with a sigh. “It is as simple as that. As for who we are… there’s no reason to share that information with any of you at the moment.”

“That’s enough, Ygritte,” Jon said, stepping towards her. “Return to Mance and let him know what happened here. Let him know this whole invasion of his is a mistake…”

Ygritte stopped, a few yards from them, and shook her head. Her bright red hair fell in tangled sheets around her shoulders, matted with sweat and tears and blood. She barely seemed able to stand.

“You really _do_ know nothing,” she said with less warmth and amusement and more contempt.

“He’s young, yet,” Qhorin agreed, drawing his sword. “Our new friend here doesn’t want witnesses.”

“Not particularly, no,” the Stranger confirmed. “I really am here for Jon Snow and his wolf, though I don’t object to making an arrangement with the Night’s Watch using Ser Qhorin as an intermediary. I have no business with the Free Folk.”

“But why?” Ygritte insisted, seeing the Halfhand’s sword, and then looking down at her own knife before letting it fall from the trembling fingers of her remaining hand.

“Our _sociologists_ have studied your people for several years,” the Stranger answered in a conversational tone. “Their analysis is that you aren’t particularly trustworthy. Agreements among or between tribes are rarely honored; agreements with outsiders routinely abrogated; you have no stable leadership structure, nor do you desire one. My associates are interested in building the foundations for long-term relationships. We don’t see how that is possible with the Free Folk, barring a few exceptions.”

“Because we’re not kneelers!” Ygritte spat, having followed the man’s explanation rather quickly. Faster than Jon had, honestly. What was a sociologist? Some sort of maester?

“No, you’re not kneelers,” the Stranger agreed. “Is that all, then?”

“You can’t condemn us for being who we are! We are Free Folk!”

“That isn’t a question.”

Tears began to well up on Ygritte’s eyes at the hopelessness of her situation. Jon hated to see it. Maybe there was still a way to save her. The Stranger had said he wanted Jon and Ghost. Perhaps he could be talked into taking Ygritte with them? Killing her now, like this, after all this, it seemed… wrong.

“Close your eyes, girl.” Qhorin was only a step or two from striking range, and both Jon and Ygritte knew it. She seemed resigned and lowered her head, letting the killing stroke take her without further protest.

“Wait.”

The Stranger glanced down at Jon’s hand, where he had grabbed hold of the man’s cloak. It was the first time anyone had actually laid hands on the deadly newcomer. Jon didn’t waver, though, and met the Stranger’s eyes with a glare.

“Take her with me,” Jon demanded.

“I’d rather not,” the Stranger answered with a level stare. “She’s a liability.”

“Jon,” Qhorin began, and the young ranger could sense the beginnings of a lecture on duty. He recognized the tone; it was not far removed from the last few words Ned Stark had shared with him the day they parted, what felt like years ago.

“I promised I would cooperate, but not Ghost. If you want me to keep him calm and under control, you’ll take her with us.”

The stranger blinked, as if in disbelief. “Is this because she’s a woman?”

“He _is_ just a boy,” the Halfhand added, but as if sensing the change in the winds, the master ranger sheathed his broken sword and sighed.

“It – it isn’t--” Jon stammered. They were right, of course. But still.

“Next time she attacks anyone, she dies,” the Stranger conceded, after a long pause. “Now, I’d very much like to get going, if you please.”

“There is still the matter of the Night’s Watch,” Qhorin Halfhand said, already seeing to his priorities. Jon took the opportunity to move over to Ygritte and prop her up against his shoulder. For a moment, she glared at him and seemed to seriously consider attacking him. Holding her up, he could feel her whole-body tense… but then she looked around at the bodies and the fire in her waned. The maiming of her hand had left her all but physically defeated, but it was the blanket dismissal of her people that Jon could guess weighed down her spirit now, when she had at least enough strength to die on her feet, like he knew she wanted.

Ghost also ignored her as he padded by, near Jon’s left side. At the least, he didn’t consider her a threat at the moment, so she probably wouldn’t suddenly knife him in the groin. _Probably_.

Up ahead, Qhorin and the Stranger were still talking.

“Take this.” Something exchanged hands, what it was, Jon could not see. “When you return to the Watch, we will ask you for certain favors. You can accept or decline. If you accept, then my associates will grant you a boon of your choosing. Where the relationship goes from there is up to you and Lord Commander Mormont.”

“And Snow? He is still one of our sworn brothers.”

“I understand that it is not uncommon for men of the Watch to go South for aid? Think of this as similar to that, except we are not headed south.”

“Where are you headed with him, then?”

The Stranger pointed up, at the sky.

The Halfhand stumbled for a step. “You… can’t be serious.” He glanced back at Jon and Ygritte. “You can’t be.”

“I am not known for jokes,” the Stranger answered, plainly. “But don’t concern yourself with that. The truth of it will come out in a year or so. In the meantime, my associates are willing to compensate you for the loss of Jon Snow and his wolf in gold and steel. Fair?”

“The Watch is in dire need of both, this is true…”

“What are they saying?” Jon heard Ygritte whisper. She limped along now, and probably needed little of the support he was giving her. The ruin of her hand still drippled blood onto the snow at their feet, leaving a speckled crimson trail in their wake.

“There is not but death in this direction; where is _that man_ taking us?” she asked, in a sotto voice.

Jon answered her truthfully. “I cannot begin to guess.”

She frowned at him.

“And don’t say it,” he warned.

She didn’t. But she did hang her head. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, under hear breath so low he could barely hear. “Nothing, now.”

 

 


	2. Chapters 5, 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (5) Arya (9.2k)  
> (6) Robb (13k)

. . .

(5) Arya

. . .

“Storm the walls and kill them all,” Ser Amory said, and Arya knew then that no matter what Yoren had told them or what he had done, death was the only way the night could have ended. Woth was still writhing, clutching with a dead man’s last desperate energy at the spear protruding from his ruin of a throat; a moment later he stumbled back and fell off the wall entirely. Arya could smell his death in the back of her nose, an instinctive promise and a portent of what was to come. From outside the tiny holdfast, spears flew, swords were loosed from scabbards, and men bellowed in an incomprehensible din. Through it all, Arya’s eyes were transfixed on a single torch, thrown over the wall, tumbling end over end.

And then it _popped_.

The torch. It popped in midair and vanished into a cloud of fire and sawdust.

The spears, too, seemed to catch fire and ricochet off course.

“Blades!” Yoren yelled, seeing the strange spectacle but already committed to a course of action: their only possible course of action. “Defend the wall! Spread out! Koss, Urreg, hold the postern! Lommy – damn you boy, don’t just _stand there_ , pull that spear out of Woth and take his place!”

Arya heard the clatter of metal nearby, turned, and saw Hot Pie had dropped his shortsword.

“I – I don’t know – don’t know how--” he stammered, and Arya let him gingerly pick up the fallen sword. Despite the strange wind knocking aside thrown spears and arrows, boys and men were slow but gradually moving to defend the wall. The enemy were still coming. Still coming to kill them. Amory Lorch and the knights of the “true king” they had called him, Joffrey.

“It’s easy,” Arya assured Hot Pit, though it was a lie. She had Needle in-hand, and her dancing lessons on her mind, but the fear threatened to drown it all out. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. Fear was like greyscale. You carried the scars of it with you all your life.

Amory and his men had no ladders, but the holdfast was no Winterfell. The walls were rough-cut and without mortar; Bran could’ve scaled them in his sleep. In the light of the burning town beyond the walls, Arya could see a calloused hand, clear as day in the dark of the night, grasping the top of the parapet. The nails were dirty and broken, but strong: exactly what the mind conjured up when one thought of a killer’s hands, or a monster’s hands. Arya steeled herself to lunge and stab it, to keep it at bay any way she could—

When the hand’s grip slackened… and loosened… and then it was gone.

The King’s man fell with a wordless thump.

“The _Hells_ is going on out there?” Yoren asked, shielding his eyes with his hand as he glared over the edge of the parapet.

Arya joined him, peeking out over the edge of the wall.

The town was still aflame, but the cries in the darkness had turned to confusion. Amory’s men below were eerily silent. Arya could see the outlines of them on the ground, she could even see men who had fallen while climbing. Some of them were bent at odd angles but breathing. In fact, all of them seemed to be breathing… just not moving. She saw Ser Amory himself, still astride his warhorse, a barrel of a man with a manticore on his shield and his helmet open. In the light of fallen torches, she could see his face. His eyes were glassy, and half closed.

His horse still moved, though, and it whinnied weakly before losing its balance and keeling over. Ser Amory went down with it, and Arya heard a crunch as it fell on him, or maybe just his legs. He didn’t so much as cry out in pain. She heard what may have been a weak gurgle, and that was all.

How many men there were, asleep, outside the holdfast walls… Arya couldn’t guess.

“What’s happening?” Hot Pie asked, trembling as he looked out over the walls. “I don’t understand. Are they all asleep?”

“This makes no _sense_ ,” Yoren cursed, though whatever miracle had happened it has saved them. He turned to Arya. “ _Boy_ -”

It was then that Arya saw it.

There was something in the air, small as a fat Kings Landing pigeon perhaps. It drifted leisurely over the wall and began shedding what seemed to be scales or feathers. She pointed, and despite the darkness and the gloom and the lack of color of the thing, Yoren saw it, too. Hot Pie’s didn’t and kept talking, but Arya turned him out.

Somehow, _somehow_ she knew – _knew_ that this was what had put the men outside to sleep. Somehow, some part of her also knew – _knew_ it wasn’t a bird or an animal. It was a thing. A thing. Some mad thing.

The boys in the courtyard fell, first.

Not dead, but like the men outside, simply… asleep. They fell from where they clutched their weapons. The fell while climbing a ladder. They fell while running to hide. The scales that the thing shed vanished in the air, and the holdfast succumbed to it, from the bottom up.

“Aryyyy” Hot Pie groaned, the last slurred word as he slumped forward and curled up on the floor.

“What’s going on?” Arya muttered, and her eyes felt heavy. Her body felt too loose, too weak, too soft, to hold itself upright.

The last thing she saw was Yoren, helping her to the ground. His eyes were glossy, too, and it was clear the Night’s Watch recruiter could barely stand.

“ _Boy_ ,” she remembered his last words. “Survive. _Survive_.”

And then the holdfast, and Westeros, drifted away.

. . .

When Arya awoke, the smoke and the flames, the sounds and smells of death, the stench of fear and the road... were all gone, like a distant memory or a bad dream. There was no dramatic gasp as she woke up, just the slow return to consciousness from an otherwise dreamless sleep.

The hardscrabble holdfast was gone; she was not waking up to the night sky overhead or the smell of pine and oak. Instead, she awoke on a soft bed in what appeared to be a clean stone keep. The walls were dark stone wreathed in pure white fabric. The floor was hardwood and the ceiling, too, and near her bed Arya saw a dresser and cabinet that looked like it must have been made in the Reach. Floral patterns were cut into the wood and it seemed finely made, though without additional ornamentation. An unlit lantern rested on a desk at the far wall of the spacious room and a lit one burned softly from a hook on the wall, shaded by dark panels. What could have been a large Myrish rug spread out from under the bed to cover some of the floor. It reminded her of the guest rooms in Winterfell.

There was a window, too, and outside it was a bright and sunny day. Closing her eyes for a moment, she could hear a few faint sounds: chirping birds and some distant gently running water. No people. No angry voices. No clash of weapons. No hint of the war spreading through the countryside.

It was peaceful.

 _Too peaceful_.

“It has to be a trick,” Arya whispered, and sat up in the bed, mind racing as she thought up how bad her situation could be. She had no idea where she was or who’s keep this was, but it was probably either in the Crown or southern Riverlands. Which meant it was in reach of the King’s men, but then, if this was the holdfast of a loyal family, perhaps it would be overlooked? But she would need to hide who she was. Arry. She would have to be Arry. Except… except whoever had her must have rescued her, and maybe others, from the fire and the madness… but if that was the case, was Amory Lorch also recuperating in the room next door?

No.

No, why was she even here? No one would spare such a fine room for some peasant boy on his way to join the Night’s Watch. This was not just a fine room – Arya took another look around – it was the sort of room you gave a guest of honor. There were tapestries on the walls, innocuous ones of landscapes, mountains, rivers, and what looked like an antechamber to what may have been a private privy. No one would give such lodgings to Arry. They had to _know_.

Yet, if they knew who she was, then why was she _here_ , resting comfortably, instead of bound and gagged and on her way to Kings Landing? She was not so injured she could not be moved.

Looking around for Needle, she spied what looked to be a scabbard in the corner with a familiar hilt sticking out of it. However, even from a distance, she could see it had some sort of lock on it.

“They found it on me and brought it, too.”

That did it. That made it clear.

They knew she was Arya Stark, or at least someone important, they didn’t completely trust her yet, not with a weapon, but they didn’t mean overt harm and they didn’t mean to turn her over to the Lannisters… at least, not right away. Looking down at her arms, Arya noticed a strange mark on the inside of her elbow. There was some sort of cloth affixed there, and when she removed it, Arya saw a tiny pinprick. Had she been injured there back at the holdfast? No. No, that didn’t seem right. Checking the rest of her body, she didn’t find anything unusual or out of place. She did notice that the shift she wore in place of her normal clothes seemed to be an unusually soft fabric, one she didn’t think she’d seen before. It felt odd when she pinched it between her fingers.

Before she could dwell further on it, however, there was a knock on the door.

Arya sat in the bed, eyes darting back to the sheathed Needle, and then back to the door. There was a pause, and then another gentle knock. It actually took her a moment to realize whoever was outside was actually waiting for permission to enter.

“Y-yes, come in,” Arya said, but so quietly she had to repeat herself, “Yes, please come in.”

The handle of the door turned – which was strange, it had to be a mechanism of some kind – and two people in fine clothes slowly walked in. The first, Arya saw to more than a little relief, was a Maester, carrying a platter that smelled of food. The Maester himself was of an age with her father, with a bald head and a small black beard. He wore the black of all maesters, and the chain, but his robes seemed… a little off. But maybe it was just his youth. Arya had not encountered many younger Maesters.

The second person was a woman, possibly a close relative of the Lady of the House. She eschewed a normal dress for a man’s attire, including a doublet and pants with a precise embroidery of golden lines and geometric shapes. Her hair was a light brown and it flowed freely over her shoulders, her eyes a gentle blue. There was no hint of malice or haughtiness on her face, just interest and concern. She leaned over to whisper something to the Maester, and both nodded.

“Arya Stark,” the woman said, confirming what Arya already suspected. “Welcome to Horizon. My name is Doctor Soriano. This is Maester Rosset. We will be acclimating you to the station.”

She walked over to a wall nearby and pulled out a strange piece of wood, that, Arya saw, folded out into a compact little table for the bedside. That was something new.

“Dock-tor?” she asked, unfamiliar with the word. It sounded like a title, not a name.

“I am a healer, of both the body and the mind. I will be your psychiatrist, and I will determine when you are mentally prepared to leave this keep,” she explained, placing the table by Arya’s bedside. Rosset carefully placed the platter on the table and removed the metal lid, which you seemed to have to twist first before it came off. Odd.

Little oddities like that were quickly filed for later, though, as the smell of real food filled Arya’s nose. By the Old Gods and the New, when was the last time she had eaten a good meal? There was certainly something to be said for the satisfaction of a meal you caught yourself, but that got very old very quickly.

On the platter, Arya saw cubes of well marbled beef in a savory sauce with mushrooms and hints of pepper. Generous slices of some sort of tuber were piled high on the side, glistening brown from being sautéed in butter and rosemary, and then there were slices of honeyed bread loaf and giant pods of peas. Arya almost dug into it with her hands, before noticing the metal utensils: a spoon, a small knife fit mostly for bread (they didn’t trust her enough for a real knife it seemed), and what looked like a spoon that had been cut up down the middle into prongs. Weird.

It didn’t matter. She only needed the spoon and her hands.

But she hesitated.

“You wouldn’t have had to feed me to poison me,” Arya reasoned, and the adults exchanged looks at hearing her. Without further ado, she said, “Thank you for the food.” And dug in.

It was almost impossibly good.

Partly, that was because of hunger. Traveling with Yoren and the others, she had only eaten travel rations intended for the Night’s Watch, and even then, only shares fit for a small boy. Before that, she had been on the streets, literally eating what she could catch or steal. But even putting aside the special spice that was near-starvation,  the beef was soft and melted in her mouth, the gravy was so good she was tempted to lick the plate – an ultimate faux pas only kept in check by the fact that she felt some urge to act her part and demonstrate that she was, in fact, Arya Stark and a daughter of Ned Stark and Winterfell – and the strange tubers were succulent! They weren’t anything she recognized, but they were delicious! She even devoured the peas with gusto, and those were not exactly her favorite occupant of the dinner table back home.

All her energy, she devoted to eating and drinking down the clean, cold water that came with her meal. And just when she had been near done, Doctor Soriano offered something else.

“Once you finish,” she said, putting it down on the side of the platter.

It appeared to be a round pastry…?

Still a little hungry, Arya thought little of what it could be and bit in after scraping the last of the gravy from her plate with her spoon and finishing her mug of water.

“Oh. OHH!” Good. **Good!** _So Good_!!

“What **is** this?” she had to ask, closing her eyes and chewing slowly to work the taste around her mouth and savor it in its entirety.

“My people call them chocolate chip cookies,” the Doctor explained. “If you like it, next time I will bring some milk. Many enjoy the two together.”

With milk? It didn’t seem possible the ‘cookie’ could be better than it already was!

“Y-yes,” Arya said, and blushed slightly to remember her manners. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”

By then, the two adults had pulled up chairs to sit while she ate.

The Maester spoke then, “Arya, you must have many questions, I’m sure.”

Nibbling on the cookie and being sure to savor every morsel, Arya nodded and replied, even if her mouth was full. “Are we in the Crownlands?”

The two adults exchanged looks again.

“We are far from the Crownlands,” Doctor Soriano answered. “We are far from Westeros… in the middle of a dark sea, of sorts. None can come or go from here without our making it so.”

Arya narrowed her eyes skeptically at that and settled on the Maester. “The Citadel must know.”

The Maester grinned at that, as if it was some secret joke.

“Aye, the Citadel knows,” he agreed. “And that is why it is a secret. One only revealed to the worthy.”

“The worthy?” Arya asked. “Like the King and Queen?”

Maester Rosset shook his head. “Secrets like this are not for the likes of them. Most maesters are not aware, either. Even the Grand Maester has not been deemed worthy. Understand: we are here by invitation only. As you will learn, Horizon is a very special place for very special people. People with unique talents.”

Arya’s first thought was to blurt out that she had no unique talents, that she was probably not a ‘special person’ like they thought. Arya _Horseface_. She was too young, and no one had ever called her pretty, not like she wanted them to, but she couldn’t be here for beauty. Even Doctor Soriano was super pretty, with perfect hair and flawless skin and pearl-white teeth. Arya wouldn’t be here for that. She was a Stark, but there were other Starks if that was all they wanted. She could use Needle sort of well, to be honest, but her skill with a blade was nothing special. She didn’t know anything special either. Arya briefly wracked her mind and came up empty. Yet, if they had brought her here, saved her, because she was special, was it really wise to argue?

There was also another question, too.

“What about the others?” she asked. “Yoren, and Gendry and Lommy and Hot Pie--” and Koss and that annoying crying girl who’s name she never did learn. “—and everyone? Where are they?”

“Ah,” the Maester muttered, unsure. He turned to the Doctor.

“As I recall, they left the area once the gas dissipated,” Doctor Soriano explained, clearly trying to recall any other details. “The extraction team only disabled the hostiles around the castle. Many of the villagers were not in the area of effect and returned to investigate. We saw them investigating the unconscious soldiers as we left. Robbing them, I suppose?”

The Doctor said the townsfolk were ‘investigating’ the unconscious soldiers that had just burned their town. Arya briefly imagined what those villagers might have done to the unconscious Lannister men. Or so she hoped, anyway. Robbing them of their lives as well as their valuables, if the Gods were good.

“You’re sure? You were there?” she asked, searching the Doctor’s eyes for any sign of falsehood. Not that she was any expert, but she had to know.

“I was the doctor on call for your extraction,” Soriano replied. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t… didn’t save anyone else?”

“No one else mattered except you,” the beautiful doctor said with blunt honesty. Nor did she seem bothered in the least by admitting it. It just seemed to be a statement of the obvious.

“No one… but me?” Arya asked, slowly, now more confused than ever.

Everyone else had been left behind to fend for themselves. Everyone but her. The faces of the men and boys she had briefly traveled with flashed in her mind’s eye. _No one else mattered except you_. Even the Lannister men outside, Arya realized. The Doctor did not seem particularly interested in what happened to them or if they lived or died, or what the villagers did to them. To her, they didn’t matter. She didn’t seem to hate the Lannisters, despite all the cruelty they had done right then and there in that town, nor did she seem moved to protect the villagers who were their victims.

For just a moment, Arya imagined the look on her own face, seeing two starving dogs fighting on the side of the road. She imagined herself, a little disgusted, not wanting to get too close, paying it only a moment’s notice as she continued on her way.

She studied the fair Doctor Soriano for a moment, and realized then that she… or her people, this ‘extraction team’… could have trivially killed everyone of those Lannister men, if they wanted. Maybe they _had_ killed them all, everyone there, and she was lying, but now Arya was much more certain that they had just grabbed her and left. Killing those men, those Lannister men, would hardly have been worth their time, effort, or attention. The thought was a little scary.

Who _were_ these people?

“Will I ever see any of them again?” she asked quietly.

“In time, perhaps,” Soriano answered with a friendly smile. “Once you have your strength. Before that, though, we will likely reunite you with your family. You can track down the rest at a later date.”

Arya straightened at that passing remark, her eyes growing wide. “You’ll bring me to my brother? To Robb? To my mother?”

Soriano nodded. “In time, though they will come to you more than you to them. For now, what’s most important is to listen to Maester Rosset. He will be your partner as you acclimate. I will observe you, gauge your progress and your health. We will meet daily and have a pair of short sessions during the morning and the afternoon.”

Arya turned to the Maester, who spoke up then, “We all have much to learn, Arya Stark. The world is a wider and more wonderous place than you ever imagined. I promise.”

. . .

Arya spoke briefly with Doctor Soriano that first day. She asked about her experiences in Kings Landing and her relationship with her family. The questions were strange. Why talk so much about all these things? Arya didn’t quite understand the purpose, but she felt little reason to fight or fake her answers. The Doctor’s people already knew much. She seemed very interested in how Arya ‘felt’ about things, and it was sort of nice to… talk… about some of it. _A little_.

She was also the one to show Arya how to use the privy here, which was not quite like it was back home. While much of the room was similar enough to back in Winterfell, the Horizon Castle had some sort of water system in it. Winterfell had pipes for moving hot water, but not for anything like this. The privy looked on the outside kind of like the ones back home, but inside the bowl was clear clean water instead of just being a hole. It didn’t even smell! And there was paper here, to clean oneself. It seemed a real luxury, but the paper was too thin and soft for writing on anyway, and the Doctor insisted it was okay.

There was a small bath, too, and the Doctor showed her how to use that as well. They had hot water on demand! Very hot water! It was all far more luxurious than anything she had seen in the Tower of the Hand back at Kings Landing. That first night, Arya settled into a hot bath and enjoyed imaging how much better her privy was than the Queen’s. It was a petty little thought, but it provided a bit of comfort. Arya was thankful to the Doctor for showing her these things, and even for the talks a little… but…

But… Maester Rosset was much more _fun_ , of the two of them.

Arya spent most of her time with him, and he always had interesting things to show her. That first day, he brought a box filled with strange colored blocks. Playing with blocks was a baby’s game, but these were not normal blocks. They were cunningly cut or crafted to have holes in the top, and these fit snugly to slots in the bottom. They were small, much too small for a baby, and with them Arya discovered she could build almost anything she could imagine! There were little men and women, too, to populate whatever she built.

The first thing she made, of course, was a keep. It was squat and square, and the colors weren’t uniform, but it had crenellations and a battlement, and she defended it with her soldiers while Maester Rosset launched little rocks at it with a catapult. That inspired her to try something more complex: a wheelhouse! With wheels and an axle, she made a cart, but then Maester Rosset showed her how the front axle could be put on a wheel, so it turned! There was a chain, too, and with it he showed her how a large wheel could turn a smaller one, sort of like a mill. There were laws of motion and force, he explained, and a smart person could take advantage of them to do hard work more easily. By the end of the day, they each made their own trebuchet and used it to throw marbles across the room.

The next day, the Maester brought something new, though he left the chest full of blocks for her to entertain herself with. This time, he brought a toy he claimed could fly. Arya had been skeptical… only to watch in awe as it floated around the room! A glider, he called it. Air, he explained, had ‘mass’ which just meant it was stuff, like rock or water, but so thin – like watered down wine – that people usually didn’t notice it. Then he showed her how you could put something in water and measure it by how much water it displaced. You could use this knowledge to build a metal ship, he explained, and Arya said it was impossible. Metal didn’t float! Yet by the end of the day, they had made a little ship out of metal and glue, metal that should have sunk in the water, except it floated!

The next day, Maester Rosset brought her a Myrish lens like jewelcrafters used, and they looked at bugs in a case! It was so gross! Arya loved it. There were so many weird and disgusting bugs out there and with the looking-lens she could see what they really looked like. She could see the mouth parts that the biting ones had. She could count the legs and that meant they were different ‘families’ of bugs. They used the looking-lens to inspect other things around the room, too.

Then, a little later, the Maester brought a more powerful looking-lens called a microscope. This one was a little too big and heavy to just carry around, but it was much more powerful. The Maester showed her what her own hair looked like, and Arya could actually see patterns in it! She could even see the very tip of a needle – a _real_ super fine sewing needle, not her sword Needle. It was neat, but not mind-blowing… until the Maester challenged her to prick her finger and put some blood under the microscope.

Between two thin pieces of glass, Arya saw strange things in her blood.

“Cells,” he called them. “They’re you, Arya. The smallest living pieces of you.”

He asked her to count how many she could see and guess how many were in the drop of blood. Arya tried, but quickly gave up. There had to be thousands!

Actually, the Maester later said, there were thirty-seven trillion. Then to explain how many that was, he wrote down one-hundred-thousand, which was how many people were in Kings Landing. Well, if each person in Kings Landing had a thousand dogs, and each one of those dogs had a thousand fleas, and every one of those fleas had three hundred and seventy hairs, then all the hairs of all the fleas in Kings Landing would be thirty-seven trillion. That, Arya decided, was a lot of cells in the body of one little girl.

There were even more powerful microscopes, too, the Maester said, and they could see smaller and smaller things. He then asked Arya what she thought was the smallest possible thing. Right way, Arya knew it wasn’t a cell. That would’ve been too easy. The cells maybe had cells? But ones that couldn’t move or be alive, since Rosset said the cells were the smallest living bit of herself. Rosset then explained that cells were made up of things called proteins and molecules, and these were shapes – like the blocks she had put together – made up of “chemical” blocks called atoms, all of different sizes and shapes themselves. Everything that was everything was made up of these blocks, build in different ways and coming out as different things.

Arya then thought to ask where the blocks came from, and the Maester said it was the Sun. That seemed crazy, but it wasn’t like she had an alternative explanation. This was something called “physics” the Maester said, and she could learn more about it later. She then asked if he had a link in his chain for physics.

“Not yet,” he said, “we don’t have a metal for that one just yet. Someday we will.”

The next day, the Maester brought another new toy. Before they could play with it, though, he showed her something called a “battery.” Atoms wore clothes, and these were called electrons, but sometimes they shed their clothes-electrons, and the battery took advantage of that. The one the Maester brought was open and clear so Arya could see how it worked, and to really show how that it worked, he challenged her to touch the wires. The result was a little shock! It was definitely real! Tiny lightning!

After that, he showed her a board with all sorts of things on it. These, he explained, could be powered by the battery. The electrons would flow like water wherever you put wire, and like water turning a watermill, it could do all sorts of things. He and Arya spent much of the day playing with it, and she soon learned how to wire up the battery to a light, and to a switch, and to a bell and to a buzzer. By the end of the day, she had proudly made a circuit with a bunch of switches that could make lights turn on, or turn off, or even flash, and ring bells and buzzers and even react to when she spoke to it! After the blocks, which she still played with, it soon became one of her favorite new toys.

Yet as the days went by, a sneaking suspicion festered in the back of her mind.

“You’re being unusually reticent this afternoon, Miss Stark,” Doctor Soriano observed, sitting as she always did in one of the comfortable wooden chairs, holding a pen in her hand that made its own ink. She wore the same clothes as before, or they appeared to be identical. The only thing different was her hair, which she wore today folded up with a clip.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, and when Arya didn’t respond.

Instead, the young Stark pretended to still be chewing on her cookie while looking out the window. The Doctor always brought cookies to her sessions, a different type every other day, and milk, and Arya never failed to devour the delectable treats; today was no different, but there were thoughts on her mind she was reluctant to share. They had troubled her all last night, so much so she had a difficult time sleeping.

“I think…” she began but trailed off.

“Go on,” Doctor Soriano insisted. “This is a judgement-free place. Say whatever is on your mind.”

And she had, over the last week especially, shared and spoken a great deal. Arya didn’t think it naivete to trust her hosts at this point. She was certain they did not owe the Lannisters anything, much less loyalty, and they had been nothing but kind to her. The things she had learned and the hints of something beyond implied a mastery of the world that she knew to be beyond anything in Westeros or the Free Cities.

She was safe here, she was certain of it. So she had finally talked: about her list, about her father’s death and how she had done nothing to save him, about Mycah and how he was dead because of her, about Nymeria and how she had been lost again because of her, and because of Sansa, about Syrio… Doctor Soriano has said, over and over, that none of the death, none of the loss, was her fault. Arya almost believed it, too, except maybe if it wasn’t _all_ her fault it was at least _partly_ her fault. She slept better now, almost every night, but she had neither forgiven nor forgotten, not her list, nor the fact that some people would almost certainly be alive right now if not for meeting her. Still, Arya appreciated the Doctor’s kind words and help most days in dealing with the weight of it.

Today, though… it didn’t help, because it was something very different on her mind.

“I think,” Arya began again, “I think this place isn’t a castle.”

“Oh?” the Doctor inquired, interested.

“I think this is a ship, like a metal ship, and we’re in the ocean,” Arya speculated, still looking out the window, where it was always bright and sunny – too idyllic to be real. “The castle that we’re in, that I’ve never left, is only a small part of the ship. This is why your people aren’t worried about what happens on Westeros. No one can reach you out here, but you can reach them, because those toy flyers are smaller versions of big ones. I think you took me here on one of those, not a boat.”

“A castle on a ship?” Soriano asked, but didn’t seem shocked or surprised by Arya’s speculation.

“It seems silly at first, but you can make a ship large enough to carry a castle,” Arya answered confidently. “Especially a small one that is just a tower with no godswood. I think that window there is a fake, like a picture. I think if I went outside, there would be no woods or stream or even any green grass. That’s also why there are no bugs or vermin here.”

“Interesting,” the Doctor mused, writing something down on her oddly uniform parchment.

“What I don’t understand is why,” Arya explained, and turned to glare at the woman. “Your people know more than anyone else on Westeros, or – or even Essos. You have power, too. Back when you saved me, you could have killed anyone you wanted.”

“The Lannisters have an army,” Soriano reminded her.

“One you could kill from the air, or even just put to sleep, if you wanted,” Arya quickly countered. “There could be a million Lannisters and it wouldn’t matter. Their numbers don’t matter. What matters is what _they_ know and what _you_ know. You’re like the Valyrians. You could do anything you want.”

“The Valyrians didn’t invade Westeros either, if you recall,” Soriano argued, and Arya felt momentarily dissuaded. It was true. Aside from building Dragonstone and trading valyrian steel blades with a few families, the Valyrians had basically ignored Westeros entirely. Even though it would have been trivial to conquer it like they conquered the Rhyone and drove Nymeria into exile.

 _Still_.

“Knowledge is power,” Arya repeated the phrase. Rosset had told it to her once, and she liked the sound of it and how much sense it made. It reminded her of Syrio’s teaching, too, that a successful swordsman or swordswoman was always thinking.

“Yes,” Soriano agreed. “It is. But please-” she gestured with her hand. “-continue.”

Arya frowned, and boldly grabbed another cookie to munch on.

Right or wrong, at least she had cookies.

“What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is why you and your people are just floating out here. Why haven’t you invaded Westeros? Or – or why are you just letting things there happen? Why did you just…” she grimaced and almost didn’t say it, but the Doctor had always said to speak her mind, and that there would be no judgement, so the words just tumbled out in the end, “Why didn’t you save my father? Why didn’t you save anyone? Anyone but me?”

“Ah, I see,” Doctor Soriano said softly, again writing something down. Then she put her pen down and addressed Arya directly, “Tell me, Miss Stark. Back at Winterfell, or at Kings Landing, did you ever see starving people?”

Arya nodded. “Sometimes.”

It was more common at the Red Keep than Winterfell, but the hungry and the beggars were a part of life. The congregated in courtyards and other free spaces to beg their lords for mercy or money or food. Back at Winterfell, her father had often gathered scraps of food to make into stew to feed the poor in the Wintertown. But at the same time, as he had said himself, he didn’t want people to become dependent on hand-outs, nor could one family feed everyone.

“Did you give them food often? Even to save their lives?” Doctor Soriano asked, but didn’t let Arya answer. “We interfere in Westeros only as it benefits us. For a long time, we did not have permission to do more than observe. Only recently have things changed. That is why we could save you.”

“And my father?” Arya insisted. “He was Hand of the King!”

“So was Jon Arryn,” Soriano reminded her. “And Robert was King. We cannot save everyone, nor are we interested in that undertaking.”

Arya sighed, having expected this sort of answer.

She had been angry, the more she thought about her father dying on those steps while people who could have saved him didn’t. But then the one she blamed the most weren’t stranger who had no investment in Westeros, it was the daughter who had only hidden her eyes and been powerless to even let him know she was still alive. It was the daughter who had betrayed him, like a fool, suckered by the Queen and her little blond shit of a son. It was the fat old King who had died on a hunt, ruining all their lives.

Arya took a deep breath, centered herself, and left the anger and hurt and blame flow out of her. _No_. It wasn’t really her fault, or even Sansa’s fault. Not entirely. It wasn’t even King Robert’s fault. Maybe they had all made mistakes, maybe they had all left openings, but the ones who actually drove the knife in were clear to her: the Lannisters, the Queen, and the Prick King Joffrey above all.

“You said you saved me because I was special.” Arya’s grey eyes bored into the foreign woman. “What was the real reason?”

Doctor Soriano sighed, as if tired of the question. “That _was_ the real reason. Arya. You _are_ special, you just don’t know it yet. Let me demonstrate one of those ways. Tell me: what did you dream about two nights ago?”

_Two nights ago?_

“Nothing. Nothing much,” Arya muttered, biting her lip and glancing down at the floor. She reached for the glass of milk and took a quick drink to compliment another bit of chocolate chip cookie. She relaxed slightly and amended that, “Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ nothing. I had a dream.”

“A dream about what?”

“About being out in the woods, back in Westeros.”

“Were you in your own body? Or another body?”

“W-what?” Arya stammered. How could they know? “I, uh, I dreamed I was… well, that I was a wolf… that I was Nymeria…”

“Indeed,” Doctor Soriano agreed. “And did anything that occurred while you were a wolf, in this dream, seem unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“You dreamed about finding a dead stag, didn’t you?”

Arya’s shrunk back slightly, eyes wide. “B-but how? Yes. I did.”

“And was there anything unusual next to the stag’s body?”

“There was a sign,” Arya answered, closing her eyes and trying to remember and visualize the dream. “It was sticking out of the ground and it smelled strange. On it was a circle within a circle and a line that cut through the left side of both circles.”

Soriano clapped her hands together and smiled broadly. “That was it exactly. Perfect, Arya. Just perfect.”

“What do you mean?” Arya asked, confused. “It was just a dream.”

“No, it was not,” the older woman corrected her. “It was a means of psionic projection, where you have attuned with your direwolf. Nymeria. You see through her eyes, share her senses. We know this, because we have been monitoring Nymeria – we have her tagged and follow her with drones. We have been recording her and we know, with some accuracy, when you project into her. ‘Warging’… is the local term I believe.”

Arya almost didn’t believe her. _Almost_. But after everything she had seen and learned…

“My wolf dreams are real?” she asked, blinking. “You’re watching over Nymeria?”

“She is special, like you, Arya. Thus, yes, we will protect her, if need be,” Doctor Soriano said it quite simply, quite plainly, but was surprised when Arya suddenly ran up and hugged her. She stiffened a little, for just a moment, before tentatively returning the young girl’s affection. “Arya?”

“Thank you for watching over her,” Arya said, and let the Doctor go but kept in arm’s reach. “Some nights… sometimes… I really thought she might have died. That I had killed her when I forced her to leave. But she’s alive, and you’re protecting her. Which means I don’t have to worry about her. And - and if this psi-onec thing I’m doing is real, too…! I’m just happy, that’s all!” _Maybe, just maybe, this meant Nymeria didn’t hate her for what she had done._

“Arya,” Doctor Soriano said, and rested her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You’re come a very long way. Do you remember that first day, when I said I was evaluating you, and that I was in charge of your acclimation? I have been waiting for some time for you to raise the questions you did just now. For you to intelligently question the nature of this room and this keep. It shows that you are ready.”

Arya quirked her head slightly in confusion. “Ready?”

“Ready to leave and see where you really are,” Soriano explained. She held out her hand. “Come. Let’s find Maester Rosset and show you the truth.”

“The truth,” Arya whispered, and nodded emphatically.

She took the foreign woman’s hand and left her room behind. Outside were more stone walls, made in what Arya had suspected to be an imitation of a castle’s interior. They found Maester Rosset in his room just down the hall. He glanced up from where he was sitting, at a desk, reading from a strange glowing tablet and writing on parchment. He seemed to instantly realize what was going on.

“Is it time?” he asked, clearly excited. He saw that Arya was holding Doctor Soriano’s hand, and the expressions on their faces. “It’s time,” he guessed, smiling brightly. “Excellent!”

This was an altogether different reaction than Arya expected, at least if her speculation was true and they were on a giant ship at sea. It had to be something more exotic. Maybe it was a man-made island? Or maybe they were on an ice-island in the far north, like she had heard tales of. Gods! Could it be they were actually flying all this time? It was… it was perhaps possible… given the bits of knowledge she had learned about flight. After all, she had no idea how large the “castle” was, only that it was a few rooms. Yes, all this could perhaps fit into a grand flying machine of some sort.

Her grip on Doctor Soriano’s hand tightened.

Together, the three of them approached the door at the furthest end of the hall. It was one Arya had never passed through before. The truth was just beyond it, she knew. The real world. The real castle. Or ship. She almost jumped in excitement. Whatever it was, she felt ready for it!

Doctor Soriano held up her hand to a picture hanging by the door.

And the outline of her hand glowed!

 _A key_ , Arya realized. _Her hand was a key to open the door_.

The wooden door opened normally, otherwise, and inside was another normal looking room with bare stone walls. The ceiling and floor were also stone. It seemed underwhelming, but then Arya remembered the strange hand-key and knew there was far more here than what met the eye. She stepped inside with the Doctor and Maester and felt a tingle as something ran down her body. A moment later and the other door opened.

What lay beyond that second door…

It took a moment for Arya to really grasp what she was seeing.

Beyond the second door, the floor turned into a smooth polished white material, built in interlocking squares and hexagrams. It extended maybe a dozen feet until it came to a wall, of the same color and made of the same blocks of material. That wall went up and up and met an identical ceiling. Turning around, she saw the “keep” she had been staying in up until now.

The castle was no castle at all!

It was more like a collection of rooms laid bare, stonework and piping exposed. Large screens stretched across the outside of the walls somehow showed what was inside the rooms. Arya slowly walked around it, towards what she knew to be the outside of her room. It was much the same. The walls were there, but the screens allowed someone outside to look in. When she came to her window, she saw that beyond the glass, there was a screen of some sort projecting images with remarkable realism. The sounds were made here, too, all to give the illusion of an actual outside world.

“I was living in a box,” Arya suddenly realized, and giggled at the absurdity of it all. She turned around, trying to grasp the scale of the big white box that had held the rooms she thought to be part of a castle or keep.

She recalled, then, how a family of rabbits were kept in a hutch near the kennels. They lived their whole lives in a few little rabbit-sized rooms, connected by tunnels, and all in what was basically a large wooden box. That had been her. It was just too silly _not_ to laugh.

“Arya,” Maester Rosset called out to her. “This way.”

“Right. Coming!” Arya replied, and ran back over to Rosset and Soriano. She retook the Doctor’s hand and let herself be led to another door.

This one was more of the white material and split down the middle and slid into the walls.

Arya giggled again at what she saw. It was another box!

Boxes within boxes!

The box that had held her little four-room keep was, it turned out, only one of several. There was another box adjacent to hers, and on the tall walls of it were more screens displaying the inside. There was another Maester there, hunched over a leather-bound tome and massaging his head while he read. Arya saw further down to her right that the boxes there were larger than hers. One held an environment like a forest with a small house inside it. Another was very tall and held a multi-level series of rooms and apartments. Bereft of unnecessary walls, the rooms themselves sprawled out in a crazy jumble, one on top the other, looking at any moment like they would fall over. There was scaffolding on the wall to allow anyone on the outside to look anywhere on the onside.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Maester Rosset asked, still grinning with excitement. “The best is yet to come.”

Arya nodded, already feeling a little overwhelmed. Doctor Soriano led her on past the white boxes to a large gate at the side of the master box. Arya dearly hoped she wouldn’t open it up only to find out that this box was within another box.

With a hiss, the gate opened for her, and to Arya’s secret relief the area beyond it was not another box. It was a hallway with grey ribbed walls and some kind of colored map. There were other people walking around here, too, and none of them were dressed in normal clothes. Arya wasn’t quite sure what they were wearing. They had an identifiable shirt and pants, but they appeared to be a mix of cloth and metal in places, and some parts glowed softly, especially on their right arms. Most also wore something over their faces that projected some sort of helmet into the air. Arya could see images and words and other little details on the reverse.

She had little time to dwell on it, though, as the people walked by at a brisk pace, paying the Westerosi no real mind. Something else caught Arya’s eye, too: a big mural on the wall with a smiling woman at the beach, wearing what looked to be colorful underclothes and holding up a bubbling drink in a bottle. Cursive script spelled out a name Arya couldn’t read in red and white. Whatever it was, though, it looked tasty! She wondered where she could get some.

Another mural appeared soon after, but this one was moving! More fast-moving letters and numbers appeared, along with bowls of some sort of food. It looked a little like the famous (infamous) bowls of “brown” that you could buy in Kings Landing, except it came with stringy pasta that Arya had learned was ‘noodles’ or with piles of white stuff that she had been told was called ‘rice.’ There were mouth-watering soups, too, she saw, served steaming hot with noodles and vegetables slices of meat!

Then a strange figure, not quite human, popped up and enthusiastically said something in a foreign tongue. It was like a drawing come to life! Arya knew about pictures, but this wasn’t a picture of a real thing. It was definitely a drawing, and not even a very detailed one. It looked like something a child might draw. But it moved and talked! And, apparently, it really liked the food in this place.

More strange sights and sounds greeted Arya Stark as Doctor Soriano led her along.

Finally, past a gatehouse with a man and women in odd armor, they came to a large hall that would have put Harrenhal to shame. It was a fully enclosed boulevard, an entire city street, all sprawled along the right side. There were shops and stores along the gently curving promenade, with bright lights and signs that leapt out into the air. Water fell from somewhere up high and flowed lazily into a reflecting pool that extended under their feet as the floor turned into impossibly clear glass. A large model of some sort of ship, with no sails, was elevated like a statue and people milled around it in chairs or at tables, eating and chatting.

That was the right side of the boulevard. On the left side…

Gods. _On the left side_.

Arya let go of Doctor Soriano’s hand, rubbed her eyes, and slowly walked towards the left side and outward-facing curve of the promenade. The wall was entirely transparent, providing a view of the… not land beyond, because there was no land. _The space beyond_.

Outside, Arya could see a curving mass stretched out below, with clouds and seas and lands of green and brown. It took more than a few stunned moments to put together what she was seeing: it was Essos. _All of Essos_. It was all down there, just like in the maps, except there were no lines and the great Free Cities were all so small as to basically disappear into the background. Pentos. Braavos. Lys. Volantis. Arya had a general idea of where these great and ancient cities were, but she couldn’t see them. This high up, they were too small… too insignificant…

And there, at the curve of the planet, she could make out parts of Westeros. She could see some of the Vale, and even some of the North. Arya heart wrenched. Never in a thousand years had she imagined seeing her home like this. It was so close she could see it, yet so far away it was hard to grasp or wrap her mind around it all.

She’d been right before. And wrong.

They were on a ship in a sea, but it wasn’t a sea.

They were flying above Westeros, but not flying in the air.

Ayra walked all the way up to the wall itself and gingerly, cautiously rested the palms of her hands up against the transparent material of the wall. It felt cold and it was all that stood between her and the void, and looking down at the world below, she felt like she was floating. Was this how the Gods, Old or New, saw the world? No wonder the people here thought the Lannisters beneath their notice! The Queen and her ilk could hardly conceive of where Arya Stark was now, much less find a way to hurt her. She wasn’t just safe… she was literally above them, above them all!

Arya’s hands slowly fell from the glass, and her eyes turned towards Blackwater Bay and Kings Landing.

Maybe it was so. Maybe she was safe from them.

But…

_Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. The Hound and his brother Ser Gregor. Ser Amory, if he still lived. King Joffrey and Queen Cersei._

Perhaps she was safe from them, but Arya Stark did not forgive or forget. Maybe it was time to find out how safe they were from _her_.

. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

. . .

(6) Robb

. . .

Not for the first time, Robb Stark wondered about his would-be could-be wife.

 _Talisa Maegyr_. Though he had not known it at the time, a little investigation on his part had revealed that the Maegyrs were an eminent family in Volantis, and true to that, Talisa has occasionally shared stories of her homeland… though not her family. Perhaps that should have been the first inkling that something was amiss, but he loved her – or so Robb thought anyway, she insisted it was ‘puppy love’ whatever that was – and maybe, as she warned it did, love could impair judgement.

Talisa.

Talisa had bound his wounds, and the wounds of his men, more skillfully than any Maester. This was not mere exaggeration borne of lust or familiarity, either… when Torrhen Karstark had been struck down, alongside his brother, in the Whispering Wood by the Kingslayer, the Maesters had pronounced him all but dead. Too much blood had been lost, they said, yet Talisa found a way to save him, transplanting blood from one man into another. It was an operation that the Maesters warned would result in death or sickness, and yet Talisa had done it in the span of minutes before moving onto another more wounded man, explaining that it was a technique known in Asshai. After that, the Maesters had come to her to write down the details of her foreign healing techniques. Within weeks, the robed Knights of the Citadel stopped questioning her methods and were content to emulate them. She taught others but shared little as to _why_ her techniques worked when others did not.

Nor did she try to seduce him, as Robb knew some whispered behind their backs. Talisa minded him and cared for him as King. He merited special attention. It was only logical, she explained, but her manner had been purely platonic to start with. It was only when he heard of Winterfell… of Theon’s _betrayal_ … that he…

And she _was_ beautiful.

There was something terribly mysterious about her, not just in her mannerisms, but in her eyes and on her face, like no woman he had ever met before. She was fit, fitter than any woman Robb knew save perhaps Dacey Mormont. Her skin was flawless, like a southern noblewoman’s, her teeth were perfect and white and clean, her dark hair soft and voluminous. She looked like she had never been sick a day in her life, yet she was not pampered. She was harder than many men he knew and did not shy away from death or violence. According to rumor, she had broken a drunken man’s arm after he tried to corner her… and then set the arm while the man was unconscious.

She was nothing like the women he had grown up around. Arya would have liked her. His mother… not so much. Yet she was beautiful and fit and strong, with a head for numbers and an ability to juggle the responsibilities of overseeing care for a large part of his army. She was… formidable, and intelligent.

But she was _not Volantene_.

Robb had just started to figure that out for himself when she outright admitted it was a cover story. He had been mad, of course, upset that she lied to him. Her people, Talisa had explained, came from further away than merely Volantis. What point would there be in letting this be public knowledge? If it felt better, she had said, she doubted the Maegyrs would complain about her borrowing their name. In a year, maybe, she could reveal some of the truth.

That same argument, that same night, she had again rejected his offer of a marriage proposal. Lying in bed, he had mused about if she got pregnant, and were thus dishonored. Did her people not care about such things? Well. _Apparently not_. **He** cared, though, about _her_ and about _her honor_ , even if she didn’t. He cared a great deal. Hopefully, when she began to quicken, and she surely would soon, she would change her mind. The Freys would understand.

The time spent thinking about it had give the young King time to consider possibilities.

For now, however, he simply followed the mysterious Talisa Maegyr as she led him and two of his companions through the forest. They were still in the Westerlands awaiting word from the Crownlands and the Blackwater, but Robb had already put plans in motion to prepare for their departure and return to the Riverlands. The specifics of when to return and how would depend on whether Stannis or Joffrey held Kings Landing by week’s end. Ravens had not yet arrived, but news – by way of Talisa and her people – was not good.

The Tyrells had hitched their wagon to the Lannisters, that was the rumor, though what had happened in Kings Landing was as yet undecided. Ideally, the Southern hosts would bleed themselves white, but the great host Renly had assembled from the Stormlands and the Reach was cause for worry. Even depleted, these would be formidable forces, and in time they would be turned northwards, by Lannister _or_ Baratheon.

Robb sighed and tried not to let it all weigh him down.

There was also the North itself to look after. Moat Cailin needed to be retaken. The North itself needed to be retaken. The Ironborn tide had apparently receded back to the coasts, after the burning of Winterfell, but how could good men be expected to fight and die in foreign lands while their homes and families were under threat? _Damn Theon. Damn the Ironborn_.

Overwhelming forces gathered in the South.

Raiders and reavers despoiled the North.

The East was silent, hiding behind their mountain walls.

Only the West was pacified, and even then, only for a time. More Lannister forces were gathering in Lannisport under Ser Daven Lannister and crushing them for good and for all would be no easy task, even if there was time to do so. The more Robb thought on it all, the more it all felt like a vice, crushing the life from him. Was it all just a boy’s folly? Had his father, his brothers, his people, all died for nothing? Some nights, it seemed the only light at the end of the tunnel could be found in Talisa’s arms.

“How much longer, my Lady?” Dacey Mormont asked from Robb’s right side. She was looking around the forest for danger and growing uneasy at their distance from the camps.

“Not much longer,” Talisa promised, leading them on. She wore a thick fur coat, though Robb found the autumn weather in the Westerlands to be rather mild. To his right, Dacey wore her mail and overcoat, a black bear cloak matching her own dark locks. She had a mace in hand and her shield strapped to her back.

“You’re the King in the North. If her people wish to treat with you, they should do it at camp,” Smalljon Umber growled, walking at a leisurely stride to Robb’s left. A great bear of a man, the Smalljon seemed more at ease than Dacey, despite the uncertainty and mystery of this little jaunt through the forest.

“How did her people end up this far west, anyway?” he asked, and Robb had to admit it was a good question. But then, he knew Talisa was not from Volantis.

Perhaps her people were from the west?

As impossible as that seemed… it made a certain sense.

“Come with me for a walk,” Talisa had said, hours ago, as he oversaw and organized the army’s baggage train. “It may change your life.”

She had also suggested bringing two companions from the North as well, for his own security and as witnesses. What they were to witness, Robb didn’t know. Talisa would not explain it either, save that he needed to trust her.

And he _did_ trust her, in the end.

“Just a little further,” Talisa spoke up, paused, and turned around. “Before those last few steps, though… I have something I’d like to say.”

Dacey muttered something under her breath and Umber simply seemed impatient.

“Say what’s on your mind, my Lady,” he advised. “Then kindly show us why we’re out here.”

“Isa?” Robb prompted.

“Robb. Do you remember the other night, when we talked about Torrhen Stark?” she asked, brushing a dark hair out from in front of her face. “I asked if you thought he had made the wise move.”

“I remember,” Robb confirmed with a slow nod. “Whether he should have fought and died, honorably, as Mern did. Or fought and escaped and bent the knee, as Loren did. Or hidden as Harren did.”

“Or prayed for an improbable miracle, as Meria did,” she finished for him with a smile.

They had talked in particular whether the North could have used winter as Dorne used the sands and decided it was highly unlikely. The North would starve in Winter just as badly as Aegon’s troops would. How Dorne’s armies survived in the deserts without castle provisions or proper logistics or forage, Robb could only begin to guess. Neither did Daeron’s famous history of his war with Dorne provide further insight. There had to be vast and secret stockpiles kept in caves somewhere out in the deserts, able to sustain thousands for at least a year or two. As winter never truly hit Dorne, it was the only distant possibility that made sense, yet how could they be kept secret for generations on end?

“Torrhen Stark knelt, and in kneeling, he saved his people. A crown of iron and one man’s pride is a small price to pay for that,” Robb answered, and it was the same conclusion he had come to before. There was no point in being a King of Ashes. Besides, there was little practical difference between being a King and a Lord Paramount.

“My King?” Smalljon’s voice turned stormy as he began to consider why they were out here. “Surely you don’t mean to kneel?”

“Stannis has a Red Witch, but I never thought you one, my Lady,” Dacey growled, still holding her mace but not raising it.

“It is not about _kneeling_ , it is about _trading_ ,” Talisa explained, eyes on Robb. “It is about what you are willing to _exchange_ for what you want or what you need. We want someone we can cooperate with and someone we can trust. The Starks word of honor, as a family, is impeccable among Westerosi. We know if you agree to a deal you will honor it… to the very best of your ability.”

“You’ll see why I took a moment to explain this in a moment,” she added, and resumed walking down a slight slope. “This way.”

The three Northerners took a moment before following, led by their King.

“You picked a bold woman to bed,” Smalljon remarked with a chuckle.

“Too bold, mayhaps,” Dacey said under her breath.

“Let us reserve judgement for now,” Robb suggested, picking up the pace as they went downhill, pushing past bushes and branches. “If her people mean to trade, then I see no reason not to at least hear them out. Especially if they come from where I suspect they come from.”

“And where’s that?” Dacey asked.

But before he could answer, they entered a clearing and saw a sight.

Giants.

By the Old Gods, it was a gathering of _real giants_.

Oh, there were some normal sized people as well, but towering over them were giants! A group of them were milling around at the far side of the clearing. Robb counted at least six. There were three more in the center with the normal people… and Talisa. These three giants were different from their kin. The ones in the back wore, strange as it was to process, a gambeson or arming doublet and pants. Yet the proportions of them were off, as the giants did not quite have the proportions of men: their legs were too stout, their arms too long. Their lower bodies were wider than their upper bodies, and not due to the normal girth around the stomach, but at the waist. They were hirsute and hairy in the extreme, and it was a shaggy animal-like hair, even around the face and skull. Yet clearly some effort had been put into shaving them, as their heads did not entirely match their arms, or the other exposed parts Robb could see.

Warily moving closer, emboldened by Dacey and Smalljon by his sides and Talisa fearlessly ahead, Robb took in the view of the three giants at the center of the clearing. Unlike the ones in the back, these three wore actual armor over their arming doublets.

A monstrous steel cuirass covered the torso of the lead giant, along with an angled bevor, all shaped to fit the giant’s unique dimensions and shape. As a result, the bevor itself covered some of the giant’s chin and was fitted with breathing slats. The impression from below looking up, however, was the appearance of a metal jaw with steel teeth. Tassets hung from the sides over the hips and armored skirt, each lame of which had to weigh a few pounds. Mail covered the upper arms, clipped to anchoring points under lame-less pauldrons that protected the armpits. Steel and leather gauntlets protected the forearms and hands, and the legs – which Robb reasoned to be the most likely hit in combat with normal men – were also well protected by greaves, sabatons and mail. A pike or spear would be the wisest weapon to fight a giant, barring a scorpion or ballista, but this armor was clearly intended to counter such weaponry.

As he approached, one of the men barked a word and two of the three giants bent the knee.

Robb Stark boggled at his display. Had someone… _trained_ … these giants? He doubted they understood courtly courtesy, or did they? Gods! They were giants. Who even knew?!

Apparently, Talisa’s people, for one.

“Giants,” Smalljon whispered, awestruck. He glanced down at his family’s sigil, embellished on the chest of his coat over his armor: the chained giant. Then he looked back up at the actual giants. “I can’t believe it…”

“They’re better armored than we are,” Dacey said, also awestruck. “How much does all that steel and iron weigh? How much does it all cost?”

“Forget that,” Smalljon said, and pointed. “Look at that one’s weapon. A bloody warhammer.”

It was a warhammer indeed, held at rest by one of the kneeling giants, but scaled up to the owner. It seemed to be iron or steel from head to shaft, with beak in back and hammer-head the size of a man’s helmet. Robb was immediately reminded of the most famous warhammer of modern times, the one wielded by King Robert himself and produced in Storms End. That weapon, to hear his father’s tales of it, was almost too heavy for anyone but Robert himself to wield for long. Yet it would have been only a fraction as heavy as what these giants carried.

“Robb Stark, Your Grace,” a man spoke up as he approached. He had a foreign accent to his speech, rather similar to Talisa’s, and he inclined his head in a curt shallow bow. “I hear that the Lannisters say you have giants fighting for you. I’d take it as a compliment, but how would you like to prove them right?”

“These are… real giants?” Robb asked, taking his measure of the man standing with Talisa.

He was neither too tall nor too short, perhaps an inch taller than Robb himself was, with dark hair and grey eyes, a few years passed middle age. Like Talisa, he had no marks on his face from pox or scars yet he was clearly fit and healthy. He held out his hand and Robb took it; the man had a good grip. He wore armor, and it was near identical to that worn by the giants themselves, except shaped to fit a man (or woman). It also bore some embellishment in brass vertically across his cuirass and around the arms and throat. That aside, it could not hold a candle to the decoration Robb had seen among the Lannister host and was essentially utilitarian. The giant’s gear, impressive as it was, had no decoration whatsoever. It was entirely functional, and there was an element of frightfulness in that fact: as if it was made purely for war, purely for killing.

Perhaps it was at that.

“Aye,” Smalljon added, gesturing to the kneeling giants. “Just where’d you find them? No giants I ever heard wear armor.”

“Your armor, clearly,” Dacey reasoned, but shook the man’s hand in greeting, as politeness dictated.

“Yes. Our armor,” the man confirmed, and after shaking Smalljon’s hand as well, he introduced himself, “Forgive me. My name is Director Hammond. In more familiar terms, you could consider me part of my King’s Small Council. In my case, I am concerned with Megafauna, including our friends here, the giants of northern Westeros.”

It took a moment to process all that. The man, then, was from a Small Council of sorts, and represented Talisa’s people. That only begged the question: how did he get here and how many were with him? A King’s Master of Ships or Coin would not travel alone, especially on official business. He had honestly expected some traders or the like, not… not _this_.

“Northern Westeros?” Umber asked. “So these… uh… people are from north of The Wall?”

“They aren’t quite people, like you or I, but they are a people, yes, and from North of your Wall,” Director Hammond explained, and led them over to the trio of giants, who were now all standing again. “This is Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg, you could consider him the King of the Giants, or to be more precise, he is the mightiest of their chieftains. He is empowered to speak on behalf of his people.”

Hammond was referring to the giant who had not knelt. His beard and shaggy hair were snowy white, unlike the other two, giving him an appearance of great age. Up close, Robb could see how the faces of the giants were not quite human… more animalistic, in a way, especially with the shape of their noses and jaws. It was similar to human, but not entirely right, and somewhat uncanny and off-putting as a result. The Umber coat of arms was clearly inaccurate: it depicted a scaled-up man with a normal man’s face, albeit with hairy legs. Yet, again, some effort had been made to mold these giants more into the image of men. He could see where their hair had been cut and groomed.

“Greeting, Stark King,” Mag Mar rumbled, looking down at the comparatively small King in the North. He ducked his head slightly in respect, and Robb bowed in return.

“I greet you, King of the Giants,” he said, and Mag Mar’s rumbled again, this time something unintelligible.

“We’re still teaching him a language other than the Old Tongue,” Hammond explained, and introduced a younger looking giant in full armor. “This is Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, the Captain and Second in Command of this combat unit.”

“King Stark, I greet you,” Wun Weg said, more clearly and confidently. His voice was deep and somewhat hoarse, as if the words were an effort to speak, but still very clear. He tapped his chest with his free hand for emphasis.

“I greet you, Captain.”

“Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun has picked up two languages since he began training,” Director Hammond noted. “You’ll find him to be quite curious and conversational. Last but not least, we have the unit Sergeant, Tor Bor Wun Dar Wun. A cousin of our good Captain.”

“Stark King,” Tor Bor said, bowing his head.

“We hear tales of giants beyond the Wall,” Dacey said, as introductions, Robb’s, Hers, theirs, wound down. “But nothing like this.”

“Naturally,” Hammond replied with a small smile. “In their natural state, when we first found them, they had no technology, no iron tools, no sense of tactics or… anything, really. And yes, we found them North of the Wall. Their biology is fascinating, and we did not want to risk wasting a potential asset. Of the three hundred and fifty-seven we quarantined, we separated these nine, as they have the most promise and were the most pliable. They are willing to learn and follow direction well.”

“You speak as if they are your slaves,” Smalljon said, but it said it with uncharacteristic restraint and silence. Robb couldn’t help but agree, however.

“We have all heard tales of the Unsullied…” he said but tried to be a little diplomatic in his tone. He glanced over at Talisa, and past her, saw there were more men some distance away. More foreigners. Waiting their turn.

“The Unsullied are barbarism,” Hammond answered with a sneer. “Human slavery is not to be tolerated. In time, we will stamp out that practice… but that is for the future.” He coughed and adjusted his gorget. “These giants are not slaves… they are volunteers and future leaders of their people, and we intend to protect and shepherd their people. That is part of why we are meeting, your Grace.”

“How so?” Robb asked, growing cautious now. He remembered Talisa’s words. “You propose some sort of trade?”

“Indeed,” Hammond confirmed and smiled again. “The giants would much prefer living in Westeros rather than relocation to Essos… we had _thought_ Ifequevron fit the bill, but apparently they find Essos as a whole to be an anathema. They refuse to set foot there. A distant conflict rather soured them on the whole damned continent, so here we are. We need land in Westeros to settle our giants and they’re far more comfortable in the North. You are the King in the North and can give us this land.”

Umber began to object. “The Night’s Watch will not let them past the Wall…”

“We can move them past the Wall whenever we please. That isn’t an issue. We also have a bit of a relationship with the Night’s Watch and Jeor Mormont,” Hammond replied, having expected that line of questioning. Dacey had also seemed about to object but now kept quiet.

“The population we’re talking about consists of three hundred and one adults, thirty-four sub-adults, and twelve children. We’ve seen to the health of all of them, so don’t worry about that. Their… culture is pastoral and necessitates mammoth herding, and as a result, it is unfeasible to separate them from their mammoths… of which there are two hundred and eighty-four. We’ve estimated that we can support this population, with room for growth, on about twenty-eight thousand square kilometers. This is about one thousand two hundred square leagues.”

Robb and the Smalljon took a moment to try and grasp what that number meant in practical terms, but Dacey was already ahead of them.

“That’s half the size of the New Gift,” she estimated, and Hammond nodded in agreement.

“Quite right, Lady Mormont.”

“My mother is Lady Mormont, Ser, but I can speak for Bear Island,” she replied, frowning. “What you ask for is a very large tract of land. Too large to simply dole out or displace some holdfasts in the Wolfswood.”

“This is so. However, in exchange for our support, Lord Jeor Mormont has agreed to return the New Gift, taken from the Starks in the reign of Jaehaerys I. I will not say it was taken unlawfully, as that is a matter for the Maesters to determine, but if it was lawfully taken it can be lawfully given. The paperwork is already signed and awaiting your signature.”

The New Gift… returned?

_Just like that?!_

It seemed too much, too quickly, and Robb almost balked out of hand. But he knew his ancestors had always chafed at losing the New Gift. They had not been compensated for the loss of territory, and perhaps worst of all, after the hand-over the Watch had not guarded the realm and Wildling raids and mismanagement had driven it into poverty and ruin. The whole exercise had been a colossal waste of time and lives, all so the Good King and Queen could feel good about supporting the Night’s Watch out of someone else’s pocket. Robb knew his father had never thought to get it back, though he had shared plans on how he wished someday to at least resettle it.

“I’d love ta see the Wildlings raid a Gift packed with giants,” Smalljon admitted with a grin. But then he turned pensive. “Ah, these giants of yours… they don’t… they won’t act like wildlings themselves, do they?”

“Of course not,” Hammond answered. “They will be under our watch, for one, and that aside, from what I’ve read in your literature, your ancestors did not have a very accurate picture of giant lifestyles or diet. They are largely vegetarian, except for milk and cheese. Our research indicates that Essosi giants were quite different, but this group will not trouble your people, Lord Umber. You have my word.”

“A buffer with the Wall would not be unwelcome, then…”

“The Watch is truly willing to sign over the land?” Dacey asked. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Hammond scratched his chin and motioned them to follow. “It is good you came, actually. You can see Jeor’s signature yourself, and what we discuss after this also concerns Bear Island and your family’s sphere of influence.”

“Sphere of… influence?” The phrase was unfamiliar to her. To Robb, too.

“It means the immediate area that affects your people, economically or in terms of security.”

“I see…” Dacey trailed off for a moment. “You’ve peaked my curiosity then, Ser.”

“All future deals are contingent on this one, however,” Hammond warned, as they came to a table. A map was laid out there, along with papers, held in place with clips and steel boards. Talisa’s people had an abundance of steel, it seemed.

“The giants are an important asset,” the Director continued, and picked up one of the boards. He handed it to Dacey. “Sign the contract, give us – and them – this land, and we will make it worth your while. First, we will we provide these nine giants, fully equipped for war, already trained in infantry tactics, along with the equipment and fodder needed to keep them in the field. Second, we will make introductions and facilitate trade with a partner of ours across the Sunset Sea. Please note that we may require further, much smaller, allotments of territory… mostly as supply depots. We hope that in time cities will rise up around these areas, bringing wealth to your realm while we go about our business of study and research.”

“Study?” Smalljon asked. “That’s why you’re doing all this?”

“Our people value knowledge,” Talisa finally spoke up in answer. “It is the root of power. With that knowledge, how many lives have I saved?”

“Many,” Robb conceded to her, but also admitted, “And how many lives can that same knowledge end?”

“Also many,” Talisa’s response included a blasé shrug. “The question is: whose lives are saved and whose are ended.”

“This _is_ Uncle Jeor’s handwriting,” Dacey said, then, holding up the clipboard and the document it held. “He writes home fairly frequently and I know it well.”

“Let me see.” Robb held out his hand, and she handed the contract over. For a moment, it reminded him of the stories about dealing with the Iron Bank, and their love of contracts and deeds. But the concepts were not entirely foreign, either.

He began reading the contract, as it was a few pages in length, and written in the neatest, most uniform script he had ever seen. The scribe Talisa’s people had must’ve been inhuman. It seemed to essentially cover what had already been discussed, with some clauses Robb saw regarding laws in the Giants Territory and potential Westerosi trade and travel through it.

Director Hammond was not jesting about keeping it safe and secure. Westerosi who attacked or harmed giants OR mammoths or other ‘protected fauna’ within the preserve would be killed on sight. Entry would be permitted only with a travel pass. Those found without a pass would be detained and hung if found to be illegally trespassing… or simply killed on sight if they resisted. The entire area was apparently going to be walled off with a ‘fence’ of ludicrous size. The area was also larger than just two thousand two hundred square leagues and closer to two thousand eight hundred.

For all that, though… Robb couldn’t see how he could say no.

From the moment he laid eyes on the armored giants, he had imagined two things: how to fight them and how to use them. The more Director Hammond talked, the more he thought about the latter. How his army could use them.

By the Old God and the New, Tywin Lannister had a Mountain. Why shouldn’t he, Robb Stark, have some Mountains of his own? At the very least they didn’t seem the sort to rape any women or bash in the skulls of babes. No, they could stand in the vanguard, swatting aside the opposition with those massive hammers of theirs. Given the size and quality of their armor, they looked all but immune to bows and levy spears. Only heavy horse and couched lance would be a serious threat. And how would the Lannisters fear to face actual giants? The shock value alone was incredible!

And the giants were only the beginning, if Hammond spoke true.

The North and the Riverlands did not have a strategic advantage at present; to put it more bluntly, they were pretty fucked. Though it was a betrayal of the Riverlands, the people and the lords both, Robb had seriously considered that they would have to retake the North and fall back to Moat Cailin. Gods only knew how hard it would be retaking it from the south, even with the Reed’s help. They needed this. They needed all the help they could get.

In the end, what choice did he even have?

“Do you have a quill and ink?” he asked, putting the document back down on the table. _Gods help me, but maybe this is for the best anyway. Plus, we are getting the New Gift back. Ellard’s ghost would be glad for that, at least_.

“Here, your Grace,” Hammond said, gesturing to a strange mechanical quill with an odd tip. “Use this.”

“Very well.”

Robb tested it on the back of his hand, once, and then signed his name to the contract. _So be it_.

“We require at least one witness to also sign,” the Director added, once it was done.

“Dacey. Smalljon. If you would?”

“Aye.”

“Hm.”

Dacey was first, signing her name on a line under his. Smalljon Umber followed, his signature and his letters less sure. Most likely he was used to just using a signet ring or stamp. Director Hammond then signed as well.

“Excellent!” he declared, once it was done. “With that out of the way, there is one more order of business… as I said, contingent upon your agreement, we have another offer of assistance and partnership you may be interested in.”

“A silver stag says they have Children of the Forest hiding somewhere,” Smalljon whispered. “Trained in the arts of stealth.”

“I made joke of it before, but perhaps they _do_ have mages or red priests?” Dacey whispered back. “I care not for their Red God, but a miracle or two would be nice.”

“Aye. Something to crack the walls of Lannisport,” Smalljon agreed. “Though mayhaps those giants could do it. How many whacks of that hammer do you think it would take to get through a town gate?”

“They could lift a man right up onto the top of most city battlements,” Dacey considered, and mimicked it with her hands, like lifting a child over her head. “Gods, they could just climb right over by themselves, get on top and start swatting.”

“Please do exercise _some_ caution with the giants,” Talisa interrupted the conversation, but with a quiet tone. “Remember: we hope these giants to learn from these experiences and become leaders among their people. We want to see how they react in real-world combat conditions, but we don’t want them all to die in the process. If things work out, we can and will deliver more, either to you here in the south or to your army in the north.”

Dacey scoffed. “ _What_ army in the North?”

Smalljon growled. “You speak true. Until White Harbor masses more men, there _is_ no army in the North. We must pass Moat Cailin.”

“Must you?” Talisa asked.

“Of course. How else…” the great man of an Umber realized what she had just implied and where they were right now. The Westerlands. _With giants._ How had they gotten from the North to the Westerlands? Not through the Neck, certainly, not while the Ironborn were there.

“Ye have ships,” he realized.

“We have ships,” Talisa answered. “Though mostly you will need to use our friends’ ships, not ours.”

“And who are your friends?” Robb asked.

He saw the Director had led them to the other group of men. Up close, now, he could see that these men were not like Talisa and Director Hammond. They wore sleeveless robes with elaborate belt buckles of bronze and jade clipped to smooth fabric. Cut cloth, silk if Robb had to guess – his mother owned a few pieces of silk – alternated between smooth and unbroken color and white embroidered with yellow gold and curls of orange. Monkey tails were clipped to their hair just behind the right ear.

“Greetings, Your Grace,” the first of the three men said with a bow, his eyes a bright orange. “It is an honor to meet you. My name is Bai Lo, a humble friend and servant of the First Orange Emperor, and Captain of the _Dancing Phoenix_. These two are my guards, Hi Bui and Yo Lui.”

The pair bowed deeply at the waist, their backs straight at-angle and arms to their sides.

“The First Orange Emperor?” Robb inquired. “Forgive me, but… from my studies, I seem to recall that the Emperor in Yi Ti was the Azure Emperor?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, it is understandable for there to be some confusion,” Bai Lo demurred with an obsequious bow. “Presently, the Golden Empire is in a rather sad state, as Westeros is, I dare say. In the south, the Azure Emperor lives, this is true, but he is weak, dying of greyscale many say, and never held much power to begin with. The cities are rising against one another and the jungles run red with blood. In the east, in the cursed city of Carcosa, an evil sorcerer has claimed to be the sixty-ninth Yellow Emperor, a descendant of Chai Duq and his valyrian wife. Nonsense, of course, and pretense. Yet he amasses power on the border and commits atrocities the length and breath of the Mountains of the Morn. As I said: a sorry state. Yi Ti is at war with itself.”

He perked up, just then. “But my friend and master, Pol Qo, aims to fix that, defeat the sorcerer, and restore order and justice to the Golden Empire. You may have heard of Trader Town and the great battle there? It was from this outpost that he defeated a great and terrible _jhattar_ of the Jogos Nhai, saving a hundred thousand from slavery and death. He is called the Hammer of the Jogos Nhai, and for his good deeds become honored by the Patrimony of Hyrkoon.”

Robb listened, he did, but honestly the names quickly became a blur. Hyrkoon? He had heard of it, yes, but only in books and stories, and even then, only the barest slivers of information. They had women warriors, he recalled, who fought bare breasted but who had held the mountain passes against invaders and hordes of Dothraki for a thousand years. As for the Jogos Nhai, they were the Dothraki of the East, weren’t they? He’d never heard of Trader Town or a battle there, but he nodded, humoring the foreigner.

This… unlike the giants, he had actually _sort of_ expected a meeting like this.

“As the First Orange Emperor, Pol Qo has already begun his march south to rescue Yi Ti. It is most fortunate, but surely you have heard of the Great Plague that struck the Dothraki Sea? We are blessed, truly, as a similar plague has also devastated the Jogos Nhai. Without their zorses, they have all but collapsed and, after years of evil deeds, are broken against our northern borders. Thus, my Emperor can turn south with a glad heart.”

Robb nodded again, gesturing for the man to continue. He had, _actually_ , heard of the plague hitting the Great Grass Sea. A lorathi trader had visited Riverrun while he was there, trading for Westerosi steel (much in demand at present). Riverrun had entertained him as a foreign guest and he hold tales of how the Dothraki were selling one another into slavery by the dozens for even a single foreign horse and how starving horse lords, once so proud, were now found begging on the streets of Norvos, Qohor and Volantis. In Saath, a city with a long memory and a long grudge, they were being used for sport in contests with dogs and bears.

As for affairs East of the Bone Mountains… such things rarely reached Westeros.

Well, until _now_ , apparently!

“The ancient capital of Tiqui will surely have fallen by now, and from there, the Orange Emperor will reclaim all of the Golden Empire. I dearly wish you could meet him some day, King Robb Stark. You are both capable young men, forged in battle and fighting injustice.” Bai Lo shook his head sadly. “My lord’s mother and sister were both siezed by the Azure Emperor’s eunuchs and most cruelly killed. He would surely understand your own anger and pain.”

Robb closed his eyes at this and decided to accept that it was possible. Sansa was still in Lannister hands, and he knew the loss of his mother would’ve cut as deeply and sharply as the loss of his father. Blood called for blood, but above that, it demanded justice be done, and the guilty taken to account. Joffrey was not just a little shit. Through the Iron Throne, he had betrayed the loyalty of the North. Robb knew that his father must have tried to preserve Robert’s legacy without killing the only children his friend had ever really known, and for that, he had been betrayed and murdered. In his heart, he knew it.

“How did you come to such far shores?” Robb asked, at last. “You are a long way from the Jade Sea.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite so!” Bai Lo agreed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “But not so far as we always imagined! As it turns out!”

“Allow me,” Director Hammond said, bringing out a map.

“Gods!” Dacey gasped, seeing it.

Next to Robb, the Smalljon grunted, but it was Dacey’s reaction that was the strongest. After all, Bear Island was on the Sunset Sea. Common wisdom, conventional wisdom, was that the Sea did not end and that it could not be crossed. Robb already suspected it could be, and that Talisa’s people did cross it and had crossed it, but even he was shocked to see proof.

There, before them, was a map with a red line down the middle.

A map of the _entire damned world_.

Robb could see the coasts mapped out in exquisite detail, including where the lands of Always Winter blended into a great white cap on the top of the map. These lands far north of Skagos were too treacherous to map out, and deadly with icebergs, _and yet here they were_. The cap also dipped down to meet another landmass, one Robb had never seen on any map, called ‘North Ulthos.’ Below that, and to the west, was the end of Essos. The actual End of Essos, past Asshai and the Shadow Lands and legendary Mussovy in the North. To the south of Essos was Sothoryos, as expected (except also mapped in its entirety, as it stretched ever further south), but across from Asshai and the Saffron Straits was ‘South Ulthos,’ a great island that slanted to the southeast.

“So… the world is round… like a ball?” Smalljon asked, looking up from the map. “That’s strange.”

“Round,” Dacey murmured. “You can _sail around it_.”

“Actually,” Director Hammond said, letting them handle the map to cup his hands into his belt. “It turns out the Valyrians already knew that the world is round. By measuring the length of a shadow during the solstice, and the distance between the two points, Vaegor of Tyria calculated the circumference of your world to within one thousand kilometers of accuracy. In my people’s history, an ancient wise man did something identical. The Citadel has records of this as well… but seem reluctant to teach it to outsiders. I believe they don’t want people dying by sailing west.”

“So, you sailed through the Saffron Straits?” Robb guessed, pointing out the route with his finger. “But how did you navigate the open ocean?”

“Our ships are seaworthy, and we have a device that lets us know which direction is north… and we had assistance,” Bai Lo admitted, bowing to Director Hammond. “We would not have survived the passage on our own, I think. In Yi Ti, it is also known that the world is round, but to sail east was never safe. Our people also fear being wrecked on eastern shores, where demons prey on honest men.”

“For expedience, we will facilitate most actual travel and trade between you,” Hammond said, hands still resting in the loops of his belt. “You see, your Grace, my people have struck up a bargain with the Orange Emperor. The chaos in Yi Ti is not productive and we need a stabilizing force there. We approached the Azure and Yellow Emperors and did not find them up to our standards. Much the same, we are willing to invest in your activities in Westeros.”

Robb looked up at him. “And you would like us to cooperate?”

“We would,” the Director replied.

Robb mulled the idea over and rolled his shoulders with a pop and crack. “I’m not opposed to the idea… the North would be glad to have friends in foreign lands. But even going around this way, across the Sunset Sea, the distances involved… this is not like Braavos, which is across the Narrow Sea. What help could we really be to one another?”

“A trade in ideas is suitable for the time being,” Hammond suggested. “And people. Just as Bai Lo and his crew are here, representing the Orange Emperor, we would appreciate some volunteers from your army to join Pol Qo. A hundred will do, and at least one must be a noble of good standing, as Bai here is in his land. You needn’t worry about how they can assist the Emperor… we will take care of the specifics.”

“I never imagined that I would be so far from home,” Bai Lo said softly. “I did not even speak this language until it was taught to me by our… friends. While the wealth of Yi Ti is great, and the Emperor has sent gifts to The Stark in Winterfell, much was provided for us. The Director and his people can be trusted as intermediaries.”

“You just need to pick who will represent you in the Emperor’s court,” Talisa added. “And anything personal you would like to send as well. But, to be honest, this is mostly a cover for aid we will be giving you both.”

Robb turned to Bai Lo. “You called me the Stark in Winterfell… but Winterfell has been sacked. Have they told you that?”

To his surprise, Bai nodded. “Yes. They have, King Stark.”

“And you would still deal with us?” he asked, incredulous. “Our enemies…”

“We will shuttle a force across the Neck,” Director Hammond interrupted, seemingly unperturbed. “What they do from there, we leave up to you.”

“How large a force?” Smalljon demanded, no doubt already imagining himself leading it. Umber lands had not been threatened by Ironborn and were unlikely to ever be, but the North itself had been assaulted. It was not an insult he could let go. Some Umber blood flowed in the Starks and vice versa.

“A thousand men and whatever support they require,” the Director explained, and gestured to the sea. “We have a small force of Yi Ti junks at your disposal… their ships are more seaworthy than galleys and larger as well. The Orange Emperor has kindly provided crews for them. At present, he has no need for a navy, though I hope both of you will correct that deficiency as soon as possible.”

“If we can get in behind the Neck, link up with forces from the Barrowlands and maybe the Ryswells…” Dacey cupped her chin and examined the map. It made it easier. Robb could see it, too. The Greyjoys had obviously moved up the Fever River. They would have most of their ships there, still.

They’d need a Northerner to rally the Barrowlands, Robb knew. That narrowed down the more realistic options. Talisa had warned him not to trust Roose Bolton, and he was too far east anyway. Even if he was close by, Robb could not say he was entirely impressed by the way his forces were bleeding men… particularly non-Bolton men. Galbart Glover was a strong candidate who knew the area and had clout with the Dustins and Ryswells. Maege Mormont was capable but it would be unwise to send her alone, besides which she was already committed to foraging for the army and the Riverlands here in the west. The Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark were two other strong possibilities, especially since the Karstarks were still sore over the loss of Jaime thanks to Robb’s mother. Getting them out of the south and giving them a chance to rescue the North could kill two birds with one stone. Or maybe it was better to simply point them at the Lannisters and let them do what came naturally?

“If you can do this for us, you have my thanks, and the gratitude of the whole of the North,” Robb said, seriously. Director Hammond seemed to take it all in stride.

“The original plan was to give you the ships to make logistics easier,” he admitted with a sigh. “But plans never survive contact with the enemy… or the real world it seems.”

“Wise words,” Dacey observed. “Are they from your people?”

The foreign officer seemed to regret speaking so freely and coughed into his hand. “They are. Spoken by a great warlord of the Old World, centuries ago. Now… why don’t you follow me? Along with the ships, Bai Lo’s expedition has come with some other gifts you may be interested in… aside from the silks.”

“The silks alone will be worth much,” Robb argued, but sensed this was something of particular interest. Gold was the muscle of war, and they had need of it. The silks would honestly and truly help in that, if they could find someone to either sell it to or who would pay in advance for it. It wasn’t like they could just ride into Duskendale and sell it to the Free Cities or hawk it to the court in Highgarden.

Director Hammond paused at another table, one kept near the visitors from Yi Ti. A sheet covered some odd lump on the table, and he rolled it up to reveal some sort of odd bludgeon and a leather tool kit.

“Strangest hammer I’ve ever seen,” Smalljon remarked, not sounding terribly impressed.

Or… was it a hammer?

“It’s a queer crossbow,” Dacey guessed, leaning into inspect it. She pointed to a mechanism on the underside. “See? A trigger.”

“The noble Lady has the right of it,” Director Hammond explained, and picked up the weapon in both hands. “This is an air rifle… smoothbore, so not a true rifle, but it would be unkind to call it a musket and it doesn’t truly do a shotgun justice.”

“Sir,” Talisa interrupted. “Might I suggest a native term for it. Steelbow or Steelbolt something? I’m sure the YiTish will need the same.”

“True. Please come up with a name for it, when you have the chance,” Hammond said, and went back to the unusual weapon itself. Dacey, Smalljon and Robb all exchanged a quick confused look.

“This weapon is powered by compressed air,” Hammond explained. “I know Westerosi and Essosi understand the principles of pneumatics and hydrodynamics. You use pumps in mines and wells. Perhaps you’ve seen one but never quite wondered how it worked?”

Robb interrupted, “I have some idea, Ser. Maester Luwin taught us well.” He saw his companions were less sure, and explained, “When water is compressed it comes out the other side of a tube. The more weight is used to compress the water, the more it comes out. Imagine squeezing a wineskin. Squeeze it a little and some wine pours out over the lip; squeeze it hard and it will spurt out.”

Dacey seemed to grasp the wineskin analogy well, but Smalljon was still a bit confused.

“That’s wine, though,” he argued. “Or… water…”

“If you blow on your hand, do you not feel it?”

“Yes, but… ah…” He got it. You could move things by blowing on them after all. Every child knew that.

“What I don’t understand is how you hold the air when it is compressed?” Robb asked, and smiled at the way Talisa looked at him. It was clear she was more than a little impressed by his knowledge.

“I’ll explain,” Hammond replied, “While there are similarities between water and air, water is functionally incompressible… with what we have on-hand. Air, however, can be compressed, like stuffing soft cotton balls into a box instead of hard iron balls. You see?”

They did, he saw.

“The air around you has a pressure of about one hundred kilopascals,” he continued quickly, and pointed to the stock of the weapon, “but we can just call it one ‘atmosphere’ for short. The air inside this is about sixty atmospheres.”

He twisted at the stock of the odd string-less crossbow and it came off!

“If you see here, this stock has a small valve, and the part it attaches to has a little pin.” He held up both stock and stock-free ends of the bow. The three Westerosi stepped closer to look, and indeed, Robb could see a small pin in where the stock was meant to go. There were grooves cut into the metal, too, that allowed it to be twisted in place. _Quite clever._

He also quickly realized how it worked.

“When you squeeze the trigger, the pin depresses the one-way valve in the stock, releasing a small amount of the air inside. This enters the barrel and propels the shot. But of course, you have to prime the reservoir.”

“Reservoir,” Dacey repeated. “Again, like water… so you use a pump or bellows?”

“That’s correct. We have two pumps for you. One will be mounted on a wagon, and it will automatically prime the reservoirs while it moves. All you have to do is attach however many you want refilled. The other pump is hand-held, and individually operated. You can either centralize and control all refills or allow your men more freedom. The choice is yours.”

The Director took a device from the leather pouch, it looked somewhat like a stirrup to Robb’s eye, and handed it to Bai Lo. A long tube from the same kit fitted snugly into the stirrup. Bai Lo then threaded a ring over the stock and screwed the reservoir onto the end of the tube. Finally, he set the stirrup onto the grassy ground. He then showed how one could use the stiff ‘arms’ of the ring as handles, helping to pump the stock while using your feet to keep the stirrup from moving.

“One thousand six hundred times,” the Director said. He had them all repeat it, so they understood what was involved, even the King in the North. “That, or the wagon system. This lets men charge the weapon in the field. If you go with the hand-pumps, we will provide your officers with a device to measure the pressure inside the reservoirs, and I recommend you test the men repeatedly and at random to make sure everything is kept at the ready. It will get hot as you near the end, but that is normal. Don’t worry, they won’t explode.”

“Explode?” Smalljon asked. “Do you have ones that explode?”

“Perhaps something for the future,” Hammond suggested, quickly moving on. He beckoned Bai Lo to demonstrate.  “Once the reservoir is ready, you can screw it back onto the weapon or keep it in storage. We recommend each man keep two fully primed reservoirs with them into battle. Each one will provide about thirty shots, with somewhat decreasing force for the last ten.”

Bai Lo returned the stock to the bow, securing it firmly in place and placing it back on the table.

“Such devices are not unknown in the Golden Empire,” Bai Lo explained, patting the stock of the weapon. “The Ghiscari were the first to write about pressurized liquids, and the Valyrians studied fire and air. Their knowledge survives in Yi Ti. Though… it is mostly used for toys or clockwork magics at court, or for bellows at the forge.”

“The forge?” Dacey wondered. She had mentioned bellows before as well.

“While you may think of this weapon as a crossbow,” Hammond returned to the item at hand, “it does not shoot normal bolts or flechettes… darts, in your language. Instead, it fires shaped balls, like these.”

Robb, Dacey and the Smalljon were soon holding one of the odd bolts in their hands. It was nothing more than a small shaped ball, like you could see in a sling. Kind of conical. It was reasonably heavy, possibly made of lead, but not terribly impressive.

“Why isn’t it round?” Dacey asked what they were all thinking. “Slings use round balls to fly better.”

“In this case, the bullet or the bolt would ideally spin parallel to its acceleration; this would work much like the fletching on an arrow, you understand? The problems with a ball, when using a tube to provide direction, is that it will tend to bounce around inside the tube. This reduces accuracy, like an unsteady hand holding an arrow. Even if the ball itself does not bounce around, random twisting of the ball in midair causes inaccuracy, like an arrow without fletching. This particular shape will provide reasonable accuracy with a smoothbore. There are further ways to improve this weapon, but we would ideally like you to discover them on your own. If you do find ways to improve it, we will reward you.”

Robb held up the bolt, between thumb and index finger, and tried to imagine it flying through the air. Like a sling, it would strike with force, but he still rather doubted how much force. Possibly it could injure unarmored men, even kill if striking the skull, maybe breaking bone on occasion, but…

“The individual balls are kept in a simple greased metal cartridge to protect them from the elements and provide more rapid reloads.” Hammond showed them one of the tubes. There were bolts stacked inside, held in place with a little trap door. The tube itself was then slotted into place on the right side of the weapon, fitting under a little metal mechanism.

“A spring in this,” the man explained, pointing to the mechanism. “Manually loads after every shot. Once the cartridge is loaded, it automatically opens at that end. You tilt it like so, this way gravity brings next ball down and into place, and then press this, and it loads it. Finally, you pull back the hammer and you’re ready to fire. You aim by looking down the barrel, through the iron sights.”

Robb noted those in particular: what looked like two prongs near the middle of the weapon and a single prong at the end. In all the crossbows Robb knew, the sights were in the rear, and many crossbowmen aimed just by sighting over the point of the bolt.

“Let’s see how well it does, shall we?” Hammond asked, and handed the rifle over to Talisa.

“Fifty or a hundred yards, sir?” the healer Robb had fallen for asked, shouldering the weapon and testing out the sights.

“Start with fifty and work your way up,” he answered, and inclined his head to the right. Robb noticed then that some targets had been held up by stakes in the ground, ready for the demonstration. A pair were closer and a pair further and a pair yet further away, near the edge of the clearing. Rings were painted on each one. Bai Lo’s men must’ve set them up while they were being shown the weapon.

Director Hammond went back to resting his thumbs into the loops of his belt. “Two in each, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” Talisa said, and just like that she began firing. The gun made a loud pop and the wooden target about fifty yards away shook from the impact. She tilted the sling-less crossbow and used her thumb to reload the chamber and cock back the hammer. A second pull of the trigger and the metal target at fifty yards trembled. After that, she moved on to the targets at a hundred yards, hitting each one with precision. One shot missed at a hundred and fifty yards, but the other two struck true. Talisa then went back and began at fifty yards again, putting the next four shots on target. Another shot at a hundred and fifty went wide, just barely nicking the wooden target, but the next two hit… including one that knocked the same wooden target to the ground.

“Not exactly a M41, but it does the job,” Talisa observed, and emptied the rest of the cartridge into a tree at the very far end of the clearing. _Tufft-tufft tufft-tufft_ , the bolts struck the tree, kicking up splinters visible even from afar.

The range was nothing that couldn’t be matched by a skilled crossbowman or bowman…

But that rate of fire? There was nothing like it, and it didn’t require a strong arm or, it seemed, all that much practice. The bolts fired were also far faster than an arrow or crossbow bolt. They weren’t even a blur. For all intents and purposes, they were gone from the weapon and then on the target. As a weapon of ambush… it could be quite terrifying.

Talisa clicked the feed mechanism to confirm there were no rounds left in the barrel and put it down on the table. With hardly a word to follow, she and the Director went off to inspect the targets. Robb was curious what the targets were. One looked to be wood and the other metal of some sort.

A closer look proved his guess right.

At fifty meters the wooden target had been punched clean through, and so had the plate with riveted mail nailed into place over it. In both cases, the board was a piece of solid oak thicker than Robb’s fingernail. The bolt penetrated both the wood and splintered the wood protected by mail. It did the same at a hundred yards and a hundred and fifty yards, with one exception where it hit at a sharp angle.

The weapon was at least as dangerous as a crossbow, he wagered, but fired more than ten times as quickly and with greater accuracy. By the time they reached the last target, the shot-mangled tree, Robb could see Dacey and the Smalljon were of a similar mind.

What Robb also realized, privately, was that they would _not_ be making these weapons themselves.

Perhaps they existed on the very edge of what was possible using Westerosi metallurgy and Yi Ti know-how, but he doubted either of them could make the weapons anytime soon even if they had the designs… even if they were taught exactly how. Maybe, _just maybe_ , in a few years.

It was possible there were new and better ways to forge the hexagonal tubes, to make the mechanisms in large quantities, and above all, to make those reservoirs in the stocks that held the air in, like a man filling his lungs to capacity. The weapon seemed to be designed to be theoretically possible and yet just outside what was practically possible.

But again, what choice did he have?

For his _people?_ For his _family?_

“How many?” he heard Dacey ask, poking her finger into one of the holes in a mail-protected wooden target.

“Two hundred to start with,” Hammond answered in a casual way, his eyes off in the distance. Behind him, the giants continued to wait patiently to be led to the Stark camp. “Plus, we have some equipment on one of Bai Lo’s ships to cast more balls and make some replacement parts. But just two hundred for now. Might I suggest an elite unit? You could give them to scouts or rangers, ones you trust I hope, or you could use them from horseback… a little something to soften up blocks of pikemen?”

“How do your people use them?” Smalljon asked.

“We fight almost entirely at range… and we use weapons of this sort pretty much universally.”

“Your Grace?” Dacey whispered, seeing something in the expression on his face. He glanced back at her, then to over where Talisa remained with the weapon. He must have appeared deep in thought.

In all honesty, he did have a lot on his plate at the moment.

For better or worse, he couldn’t shake the suspicion he had just committed his people to a course not entirely under their control. So many had bled and died for the independence of the North and the Trident, yet if the choice was between grinding loss and likely failure or a qualified victory and a partnership with Talisa’s people… they couldn’t possibly be worse than being crushed underfoot by the Lannisters and Tyrells.

These weapons would give them a fighting chance and more: it would give them a chance to not just fight but _fight back_. The North and Riverlands would never win through numbers, not against the might of both the South and West. Not for the first time, Robb quietly cursed his worthless aunt in the Vale. She _would_ have to lose her damned mind now of all times.

Letting out a breath, the King of the North decided to just run with it and do the best he could with what he had. It pretty much came naturally by now.

“I think,” he replied, patting her on the shoulder. “We should all take a few practice shots with that… air-bolter… and then rehearse how we’re to explain returning to camp with a company of heavily armored giants. And then we head southwest, link up with our outriders… and pay a visit to Lannisport and Casterly Rock. If we have to march back to the Riverlands and face the Lannisters and Tyrells, we’ll do it with full bellies and a well-stocked warchest. This is going to be a long war.”

Dacey lowered her eyes, but he could see she agreed and looked forward to it. A smile parted her lips revealing a predatory grin. “And the campaign to the North?”

“I’ll be sending Glover… and your mother, if she’s finished down south. You’ll remain with me.”

She accepted the plan readily. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, Your Grace.”

“I hear we’re going to shoot that new toy of yours!” Smalljon trotted by in long strides to be the first in line. He had his arm around the comparatively small Bai Lo, dragging him around like a new drinking buddy. “The worst shot toasts the others when we get back to camp!”

He left behind Director Hammond. The foreigner seemed content to watch them go, pleased but not celebratory. Despite the fine armor and some outside appearances, he didn’t seem particularly martial in any sense the Westerosi understood. More like a Master of Coin than a Master of Ships. Yet he had just traded away two weapons that could turn the tide of the war. Robb recalled he had mentioned ‘fauna’ in the plural.

What else were Talisa’s people working on?

“Robb.”

“Hmm? Sorry, what?”

It was Talisa. “You don’t know how happy I am that you agreed to play ball with us. You won’t regret it. As further proof of our good will, I’ve been given this… to pass on to you.”

It was a letter.

“What is this?” Robb asked, turning it over in his hands. On the front, in a child’s handwriting, he saw his name. _Robb Stark_. And he recognized those sloppy letters, written slowly and carefully but still poorly. “Arya! Did Arya write this?”

“We rescued her some time ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Robb barked, growing angry, but he quickly relented at the look on Talisa’s face. It wasn’t like she was in charge here. Come to think of it, Robb wasn’t all that sure himself anymore. Who _did_ rule her people anyway?

“It was all pending your agreement, cooperation, and your… openness… to new ideas,” she admitted, and there was a tone of regret in her voice. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand my people don’t know you like I do. They want to be sure you are who we hope you are. To take your measure. But that _is_ Arya’s letter. We have her… and Bran… and Rickon. They’re all safe.”

The news hit like a maul to the chest. Robb felt himself stumble back a step.

“They’re all alive? But – but…!”

“Who Theon murdered in their place, we don’t know,” Talisa revealed. “Some random peasant boys. The wildling, Osha, hid your brothers in the crypts and then escaped into the woods. We have her, too. We also cannot confirm it, but based on first-hand accounts, including your brother’s, the Bolton levy sent to assist in retaking the castle started the fire that burned it. Once in our custody, he began to make some… unusual requests. One of them is to seek redress against the Boltons.”

The sharp report of one of the air-bolters filled the silence in that moment. Robb stared down at the letter in his hands and felt tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. They were alive. _They were all alive!_ Talisa’s people had saved them.

Saved them from themselves, to be brutally honest.

“House Stark cannot thank you enough,” he finally said, glad Dacey and the Smalljon were too distracted to be watching their King shed tears. “I cannot thank you enough, Tal. You or your people. My mother will want to see them as soon as possible…”

Talisa glanced away at that.

“Isa?” he asked, very quietly.

“Arya and Bran have special skills, Robb,” she replied, just as quietly, barely more than a whisper. “The same special skills you know you have.”

 _Meaning warging. They were wargs, too. Gods_.

Talisa leaned in closer, to whisper in his ear, “According to our studies of them, both are even stronger than you are. They are perfectly safe, I promise you that, but for the time being we would prefer to keep them under observation… to better hone their skills and bring out their potential. We believe they may play a critical role in the future of not just Westeros, but all of Terros.”

“Rickon, however,” she concluded, leaning back again. “He may be too young for this part of our educational program. If your mother wishes to reunite with him, we can arrange it.”

That was something at least.

Robb shuddered at _that_ conversation, though. His lady mother did not take ‘no’ very well, especially when that ‘no’ was in response to ‘I demand to see my children.’ She’d be elated to hear they were alive and then enraged to know they were still out of reach. Dealing with the Boltons would almost be preferable. _Almost_.

_Roose still leads my forces on the other side of the Trident. Fuck me. Did he know? Was this revenge for Rodrick killing his bastard?_

Putting that aside, he broke open Arya’s letter and began to read.

_Only Sansa was left, now._

He only had to rescue Sansa and take on the fifty to sixty thousand men that either Stannis or Tywin were sure to muster to reconquer the Riverlands and the North. Oh, and the Ironborn. Them, too. And at least one disobedient bannerman. _Gods_ , was there _anyone_ between the Trident and Asshai that he _wasn’t_ destined to be at war with? At least with the Ironborn driven out the North itself would be secure. They had the Wall guarding their backs.

It was just _every other direction on the map_ that he had to worry about.

That was all.

. . .

Talisa stood at attention and saluted as Director Hammond boarded the shuttle to take off.

“Good work back there, lieutenant,” he said, one foot on the ramp. “In recognition of your good work thus far, I am offering you a field promotion to Captain. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir!” Talisa smiled in gratitude, though it would be some time before she had a chance to wear her third star. Her hair drifted lazily behind her in the wind.

“I’ll have the insignia sent to your storage locker on Horizon.”

“I appreciate it, sir.” She paused, but felt the urge to ask, “Sir. If I may?”

Hammond seemed willing to delay his departure for a time. He nodded. “Go on.”

“Sir. May I ask why we went with the air rifles? And why they were not proper rifles?”

“It is easier to control this technology,” Hammond explained, once again resting his thumbs in his belt. He’d loosened up his native-inspired armor once the indigs left. “The kill switches in the reservoirs will allow us to detonate any one at any time, and they cannot realistically make replacements. Aside from the Red Priests, this world also seems to lack even the basic knowledge underpinning gunpowder… but pneumatics has been known and written about for more than three thousand years. In the end, it fits the narrative better this way. We’ll be introducing chemistry via the maesters later on.”

“As for the rifling?” He shrugged. “Ideally, the Westerosi will figure that out themselves. They have the knowledge, they just don’t know they have the knowledge. If they’re slow, we’ll use a maester to give it a little push. But we’d like to see some organic development of the technology; that includes letting the natives play with it a bit.”

Talisa considered that and nodded. “That makes sense…”

“Terros… and Westeros… will also need a narrative for their uplift,” he explained, “A national story, you could call it. They’re human and they’ll be citizens one day, or their children or grandchildren will be. They’ll need larger than life figures during the transitional periods. Warfare is an excellent way to produce these figures with the traits and values that mirror our own. We don’t want there to be friction when our own settlers show up. By the time we’re done, the cultures of little value will be quashed and the cultures with utility and adaptability will welcome their kin with open arms.”

“That’s the plan anyway,” he concluded. “And you know what they say about plans.”

“Yes, sir,” Talisa replied. “Good evening, sir. Safe travels.”

“And you as well, Captain,” Director Hammond replied, returning the salute. He boarded the shuttle and it took off into the darkening sky.

Left alone, again, Talisa Maegyr began her long walk back to the camps from the clearing.

‘ _A national story,_ ’ she thought. One that would require battles. ‘ _How many thousands will die to give us that story?_ ’

It was too bad: they were human after all, though ignorant, savage humans for the most part…

‘ _Can’t be helped, I suppose. You fight the enemy you’ve got, not the enemy you want._ ’

She paid little attention to the raven following her as it hopped from tree to tree and flittered from branch to branch. It wasn’t one of theirs, after all. Infrared showed it to be completely ordinary and it was projected that there weren’t more than four or five latent psionic wargs south of the Neck. Or so the research indicated.

. . .

Far to the North, beyond the wall, entombed in a cage of weirwood roots, Brynden Rivers blinked. He’d suspected something was amiss, especially after The Boy vanished after the Sea took Winterfell. That really shouldn’t have happened. In the end, it had proven wise to keep an eye near this supposed Volantene woman.

But… but…

“That was a flying ship,” he said to himself, not seeing any of the Children of the Forest around. “That was a **flying ship**.” _And it shot straight up._

Where was it even going?

Bloodraven’s tired clouded eye glanced upwards but saw only the ceiling of his cave and the roots of his prison. He couldn’t see the night sky.

_‘What the Hells is up there?’_

. . .

 


	3. Chapters 7, 8, 9, 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (7) Davos (Blackwater I) (3.1k)  
> (8) Daven (6.2k)  
> (9) Davos (Blackwater II) (3.5k)  
> (10) Jorah II (5.9k)

. . .

(7) Davos

. . .

Smugglers did not sound warhorns or raise banners and yet here he was, in command of a fleet; a fleet in service to the True King of Westeros, Stannis Baratheon. It was not a particularly popular command either, Davos Seaworth knew, though men in the know suspected the Onion Knight was a likely candidate for Hand of the King once the city was taken. Many had expected command of the fleet to pass to Imry Florent, the Queen’s brother and a man who had seen the rightness of the King’s cause only after the… events of Storm’s End.

Davos had expected as much, given the low status of his birth, who was he to command so many lordly men at sea? While elevated beyond his birth, and while possessed of a wealth of experience in sailing and even fighting on-decks, he had little and less experience with actual battle. To his name, he had never rammed a ship or sunk one, nor even captured one. The attention did him fewer favors, still, a fact he was reminded of every time the captains of the fleet met on the trip north from Shipbreaker Bay to the Blackwater.

‘ _They think me timid as well as low-born_ ,’ he thought, recalling the looks directed his way. ‘ _A lowborn craven, his castle and knighthood purchased with onions._ ’

Melisandre.

He suspected it was Melisandre who had convinced the King to leave him in command of the ships. Perhaps the woman wanted him to fail… or die or disgrace himself in Stannis’ eyes. Before leaving the bay, she had approached him and wished him luck with that sly smile of hers, and he had suspected it then and there. What he couldn’t fathom was why.

As a compromise, Imry had been given the honor of commanding the fleet’s greatest warship: the _King Robert’s Hammer_. She was a mighty vessel indeed, with three hundred oars, her decks packed with scorpions and her fore and aft castles sporting formidable catapults. Imry had further packed her with the finest knights and men-at-arms House Florent could bring to the field. His own sweet _Black Betha_ , named for Aegon the Unlikely’s high-spirited Blackwood Queen, was half the size of the _Hammer_ at a mere hundred oars, but she was rather handier in a pinch and wonderfully seaworthy.

Still, it was unusual to command from anything but the finest ship in a fleet. Almost as unusual as a lord from Flea Bottom. _No matter_.

Though they might grumble and curse him under their breath, they obeyed orders.

The trip north had been relatively uneventful, save the two ships lost that first day in the infamous waters of Shipbreaker Bay. And even then, few men had actually been lost from the wrecks. Davos felt a certain pride in that: keeping his men alive. Having traveled the bay himself, he had expected at least one ship to run afoul and had kept rafts at the ready.

“Out oars!” Matthos shouted from close by. “Form line!”

Davos spared a moment to watch his son captain the ship. With the father in overall command, the rules of basic captaincy fell to Matthos, his third son, and Davos was both proud and confident his boy could manage the task. His oldest brother Dale commanded the _Wraith_ with skill and honor, while Allard captained the _Lady Marya_.

With the _Black Betha_ , _Wraith_ and _Lady Marya_ came the _Bold Laughter_ , _Harridan_ , _Pride of Driftmark_ , _Seahorse_ and Lord Celtigar’s _Red Claw_. Further behind them, the rest of the fleet sailed in formation.

One of Davos’ hands drifted up to the pouch that dangled from a chain around his neck, a clear sign of his unspoken anxiety. The other held a Myrish Lens up to his eye, scanning the entrance of the Blackwater Bay. He could see, very clearly, the great gray mass of men and horse that waited on the side of the river opposite the city of Kings Landing. Stannis and his men had arrived before the fleet and been waiting to cross in force… waiting for the fleet. He also saw the relatively small fleet of the pretender Joffrey, protecting the bay and dominating the river.

Perhaps taking a cue from Renly and Robb Stark, Stannis had dispatched his cavalry well ahead of his infantry to take advantage of their speed. It did seem to be a popular tactic these days among warring Kings. The Kingsroad ran straight from Storm’s End to King’s Landing and the mounted force had made good time through the woods because of it. Twenty thousand knights, light horse and freeriders. They could’ve easily ridden over the Pretender’s city guard and Lannister garrison… well, if not for the walls and the gates and the river that is. To deal with those problems, they needed the fleet and the men it could carry.

A strong wind gusted in from the south, of no use to them at sail and of no matter under oars… mayhaps it would be some nuisance to the city defenders to shoot against it but Davos considered the impact minimal. The tides were good.

To the right of the bay, Davos could see clearly – even without the Myrish Eye – the Red Keep looming on the highest of the city’s three hills, Aegon’s High Hill, dominating the approach to the Bay. It stood upon a sparse spur of rock with precious little below. Further down the shore on both sides were men scurrying about, pointing as they saw the ships approach. Trumpets sounded, and men did, too, blending into a distant roar.

Davos narrowed his eyes as he spotted the odd towers to either side of the entrance of the Bay.

They had captured some fisherfolk around Merling Point, and though Davos had insisted on letting them free after some questioning, they had revealed some interesting news. The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, had been building a boom… a great chain to block the bay. None knew if it was complete or not, but Davos was inclined to err on the side of caution, even with his King eager to reclaim his city. He’d been born in Kings Landing and he knew the Blackwater. The two squat towers the Imp had built stood out like sore thumbs, and if Davos was a betting man, he’d put money on there being a chain in the water between them.

And if not, if there was no chain? Well, then he was wrong, and he’d apologize to the King for the delay and his unwarranted caution. Stannis was a fair man. Maybe this was a sign of being overly familiar with the man, but Davos was not overly concerned about asking forgiveness for being prudent.

With his Myrish Eye, he took a closer look at the tower on the left side of the Bay.

Stannis had sent men to harass it, he saw, but it was not built up to the shore and the door looked to be some twenty feet off the ground, or the water, rather. There were archers atop it and archers below it, hiding behind wooden ramparts, and the two had probably been exchanging shots for some time. Clearly the King knew of the tower, though he had not spent men and energy to assault it from the land.

“Very well,” Davos said, and sent a command to be relayed to the rest of the fleet.

They slowed, drifted, and began to take up formation just outside the Bay.

Davos heard shouts as he and his men caught sight of the Pretender’s Fleet as it began to form up and advance… but Davos doubted they would be lured out of the river so easily. In it, the numbers of the Royal Fleet counted for less. Outside, in the Bay, the Pretender’s smaller fleet would be surrounded and enveloped quickly. Here, they were also just out of trebuchet and ballista range. No. Davos was certain they would not be so foolish as to charge out to their doom… though had they, he certainly would’ve welcomed it.

At his command, the _Harridan_ and _Lady Marya_ advanced ahead of the fleet.

 _Sea Demon_ and _Dog’s Nose_ came up to follow and support.

All four were swift ships with skilled and disciplined captains, unlikely to over-commit or give into vainglory. If he could draw out some of the Pretender’s ships and pull them into deeper water that would be ideal. There was little they could realistically do about the chain, even knowing it was there, and Davos couldn’t imagine there would be much to gain from splitting the fleet apart. They would just land their numbers somewhere else rather than directly astride the Mud Gate.

The Pretender’s ships slowed and began to back up.

It seemed they would not be lured out to sea to play…

Davos send another command, and gradually, it spread to the rest of the fleet. It was times like this when he recalled stories of Volantis and how their navy had a system of flags and horns to relay commands. There was certainly a benefit to having a universally understood system in place like that. As it was, he could only watch as the four fast ships skirmished with the _Seaflower_ and _White Hart_.

Though the Myrish Eye, Davos could see the bulk of the fleet hanging back. He saw the largest and most dangerous ship there, the _Godsgrace_ , and beside her the old _Prince Aemon_ , _Lady’s Shame_ and _Lady of Silk_. Further to the left he saw the _Wildwind_ , _Kingslander_ and _Lance._ No _Lionstar_ , _Lady Lyanna_ or _King Robert’s Hammer_. It was entirely possible the other two ships were further downriver, but why was the _Hammer_ not here?

In the first skirmish of the Blackwater, the four ships of the Royal Fleet had an undoubted advantage, though they had strayed close enough to be pelted with firepots from the Red Keep. Despite that, they soon speared the _White Hart_ and put the _Seaflower_ to panicked flight.

As per the plan, the four victorious ships held position while the first attack wave formed up. Davos spared a look as the _Fury_ formed up to be the speartip of their first thrust. If a second was needed, it would be headed by Salladhor Saan’s _Valyrian_ and the Myrish contingent. The nobles in the fleet would’ve preferred to keep the pirates in the rear, away from the glory, but Davos knew what they were capable of. He wouldn’t put much stock on Saan’s men in a fight on the battlements with men-at-arms, much less knights, but at sea? The sea was a different story.

The first wave advanced: _Fury_ , given the honor of the vanguard, alongside several smaller handy hundred-oar vessels, _Princess Rhaenys, Red Raven_ , _Sceptre_ , _Faithful_ , _Brightfish, Piety, Prayer_ and _Dragonsbane_. As the first serious probing attack advanced in force, the rest of the fleet drifted forward but kept a distance. Davos could see the fire from the city intensify as they closed with the Boy King’s ships. There was no ship there to match the _Fury_. A parade of fiery stags wafted proudly in the wind as they advanced.

Davos took a moment to affix his pothelm. Most of the lords, he knew, would be wearing plate and chain, not boiled leather. He knew some Ironborn also thought that way, too, having no fear of drowning and wearing heavy armor as a way to show that same lack of fear. Some men feared arrows and bolts more than the ocean. Some simply didn’t understand how quickly a man in chainmail could sink.

Though his Eye, he saw the battle of the Blackwater begin in earnest.

Oars churned the already choppy water as Joffrey’s fleet engaged the advance party. Arrows flew and ballista thumped. At the heart of it, the _Fury_ tangled with _Godsgrace_ , her catapults assailing smaller ships fore and aft. Archers volleyed fire into the decks of enemy ships. Before his eyes, one galley split clear in two after a clean ramming. Several ships were grappling, the crews vying with one another as blood soaked the decks.

Davos gave the order to be passed on for four more ships to enter the fray for the bay. He could see Joffrey’s _Loyal Man_ hanging back with several hulks and a swarm of riverboats. It seemed to be waiting. Maybe the captain was unsure or regretting his cause? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time and if ever there was a time to regret defying the True King, now was probably it. The hulks themselves were probably loaded with troops, though. That could prove a threat, even to the Fury, if they managed to get grapples in her… especially if she had been exhausted fighting the rest of the fleet.

They began to move around the same time the first bright burst of green lit up the bay.

The _Sceptre_ had been the first hit by the alchemists’ damned substance. They had been expecting it, though the Florents – who claimed to have inside knowledge – had assured them the Pyromancers only had so much of the stuff. It was assuredly deadly. “Piss on wildfire and burn your cock off,” as the famous or infamous saying went. But the city defenders would soon run out. Until then, there was nothing to do but grin and bear it.

Davos watched helplessly as green death hit another ship and men went screaming off the decks into the water. It wouldn’t save them. Wildfire couldn’t be smothered, even by water. The spitfires and trebuchets of Kings Landing were raiding death on the fleet and on the ships that began to land men ashore. The quays and docks were all jammed with wrecks or sabotaged, so there was no choice but to drop men off directly ashore. Lannister parties were riding up and down that same shore, led by a huge man in a white cloak who could only be the Hound. Davos watched, unable to do anything to help, as the Hound drove his horse right up one ships’ plank to wreak havoc on the deck.

He’d been about to order more ships in when a blast of air knocked him off his feet.

“What in…?” he groaned, rolling onto his side. The _Black Betha_ was rocking in the water. And the Bay…

The Bay was flame.

Aflame with wildfire! Not just a few pots, either, but what seemed like a tidal wave of the accursed _substance_. Exactly what had happened, he had no idea, but every ship out in the front was caught in the hellish conflagration. A roaring pyre of green spread almost across the bay, from shore to shore, and licks and whirls of it were arcing and twisting through the air, annihilating anything in their path.

“Father!”

Matthos, a younger man, was on his feet and offered his hand. Davos took it and his son helped to pull him up. Gods! Allard! The _Lady Marya_! It had been in the middle of all that! Davos tried to find the Myrish Eye he had been given, but it had been blasted out of his hands and he couldn’t see where it might have rolled to. Looking into the blaze, seeking some sign of his son’s ship, Davos eyes soon began to water. The damned wildfire… it hurt to just look at.

Then the debris began to rain down on them, the fiery debris, carrying the wildfire even further.

“Protect the ship! Protect the ship!” he roared, though the face of his lost son flashed behind his eyes. Matthos was on this ship. Dale was still on _Wraith_.  They weren’t out of this yet, any of them!

“Back water!” Matthos bellowed, taking charge of the ship. “Move! Now!”

The _Black Betha_ heaved and slowed, reversing under protest. Davos turned around and saw the chain had been drawn up, trapping them in the bay. It had been a trap from the start, just as he expected. But…

But it hadn’t sprung, not truly.

Most of the fleet was now split, some outside the Bay, many inside it, but the wildfire had detonated too soon. Most of the ships were still intact, and while flaming debris was a challenge, it was only a little different from the wildfire firepots they had trained for and expected. It would not ruin them. The Fleet was mostly intact, and the men on board ready to land and assist the King in retaking the city that was his by rights. Davos tried not to think of his boy, his poor boy. _Allard_. **No**. _Later_. _Not now!_

“The bay… we can’t cross that,” Matthos said, and he had the right of it, Davos knew.

There was no way to cross, not while the wildfire burned like a wall blocking them.

“Aye. There’s no way,” Davos agreed, but hardened his heart. He knew what the King would require, and he knew the costs of it would not deter him. Davos was dutybound to carry out his orders. “We hit the shore out here, in the shadow of the Red Keep. The men will have to push to the Mud Gate on their own.”

“Lord of Light protect them,” Matthos whispered.

It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t ideal, but they _needed_ to get the King’s forces into the city. The Pretender’s fleet was gone, too. Stannis could still cross further downriver, near the King’s Gate.

“Father!”

Davos felt light-headed. He almost stumbled, and reached up to feel wetness on his brow, sticky under his helmet. His son caught him and kept him steady.

“It must’ve been debris,” the young man said, and Davos nodded warily. He almost stumbled again but managed to stand again on his own. His helmet… his helmet had saved him. _Praise the Seven_.

“We’ve done all we can at sea,” the Onion Knight lamented, shying away from the wall of flame blocking the bay. “Send the signal. Break out the boats. We go ashore.”

. . .

 

 

 

. . .

(8) Daven

. . .

Lannisport

For most of his life, Daven Lannister had gone cleanshaven, his face smooth as a baby’s behind. That had been before Oxcross, where his father had been set upon by the treacherous Northern host and murdered by Rickard Karstark. Hearing of the barbaric atrocity from survivors of the attack, Daven had sworn to neither cut his hair not shave his face until Stafford Lannister was avenged. Killing the Karstark patriarch was the best possible outcome that would restore the family honor, but honestly, after a few days of _itchy_ stubble, Daven would’ve settled for simply leading the army that killed him. Or… just being involved in some way.

By the Gods, how did bearded men get by like this?

His cousin insisted he would get used to it, maybe even come to like it in time, but Daven couldn’t imagine that ever being the case. Riding with the wind in his face seemed to alleviate the issue, though, which was a pleasant surprise.

Escorting riders alongside him, he leisurely returned from inspecting the perimeter of the war camp outside Lannisport and seeing to a rotation of the scouts on patrol. Before him was a small sea of forty tents arranged in neat orderly rows. Men and boys were up and about eating lunch or drilling under sergeants. Many of the survivors from Oxcross had made their way back to Lannisport and rallied to join the raw recruits. Nearby towns and holdfasts had been well and stripped bare of young men to join in the defense of the Westerlands and to bolster the latest levy from Lannisport itself.

The camps were kept at a distance from the city, to better separate the training soldiers from the temptations of the city proper. The city guard were doing their part and training, too, but in shifts. Daven was reluctant to take them from the city and march them elsewhere unless it was _absolutely_ necessary. Lannisport’s city guard were widely known as the finest in Westeros, held to a high standard and inspected by the Shield of Lannisport himself, Lord Tywin. There was no room for second best with the Lion of Lannister. But they were still needed to do their actual jobs _in the city_.

Lovely Lannisport itself sprawled behind her great walls, magnificent against the sea and the sun, guard towers of a size with those in Oldtown or Kings Landing but painted in gold and crowned in crenelated black. The city lay in repose on a fine flat plain in the shadow of Casterly Rock, on the other side the sea. A stretch of open land separated the two, so they did not completely abut as the Shadowcity did for Sunspear. That middle land was dotted by a trio of guard towers and was oft used for military exercises. Daven had troops there, too, in a larger and more permanent camp.

He was resolved not to be ambushed as his father had been.

Out in the sea, the ships of the west were at anchor in a protected harbor and under guard. Years before, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Ironborn had attacked and burned the fleet of Lannisport… it had been sacked in the Dance, too, so it wasn’t as if the city thought itself impenetrable, by sea or by land. That honor was reserved for The Rock. No wonder, then, that when an army approached the area and saw the great fastness of Casterly Rock in one side and the relatively vulnerable fastness of Lannisport on the other, _well_ , the big city got all the love and attention.

Defenses had been improved seaside since the Greyjoy’s idiocy, however, and with the krakens busy raping and reaving the North no one expected trouble from them anytime soon. Instead, the threat was from overland, like in the Blackfire days. _Robb Stark and his wolves_. There was no time to build more towers, though. Patrols on the roads would have to suffice for nonce, until the Northmen were beaten back and sent howling back to their frozen forests.

Daven slowed his horse to a trot as a rider approached bearing news.

“My lord!” he hailed and Daven greeted him with a nod of his head.

“What news?”

“A trader wishes to dock at Casterly Rock.”

Daven scoffed. “Do they now?”

Traders and merchants…

They were the bedrock of Lannisport, true, and as a knightly Lannister who spent more time in the city than he did in The Rock, Daven was more sympathetic to them than most, but that was still Lannisport and this was Casterly Rock. Only the luckiest traders, or men with very particular business, could sail between the arms of the lion and dock at The Rock itself. It was no port for common merchants and any fool knew that.

“Unless the Emperor of Yi Ti is on that boat, I don’t see how any of this merits my consideration,” Daven said with a dismissive wave. “Tell them to dock at Lannisport like everyone else.”

Daven pulled at the reins of his horse to resume his trot, when he noticed the rider had not left.

“Ah,” the man muttered, “that is, um, my lord… _well_ …”

Daven waited for the man to explain himself, his eyes growing wider as the man spoke more. By the Old Gods and the New! A YiTish ship really WAS here? Daven resisted the urge to put palm to face. Of course. Of course, it _would be_ , the moment he made that jest.

But this was news!

“I see. Yes, The Rock must have its due,” Daven decided, having heard the story.

He made at once for Casterly Rock to oversee things himself. A visit like this wasn’t just momentous and rare, it would come bearing gifts for the Lord of the Rock (who just so happened to not be present) and perhaps even some diplomatic overtures. Daven wracked his memory to recall the last time something like this had happened. Most often, Essosi travelers up this way stopped at Oldtown and then Westerosi middle-men shuttled their cargo up the coast. A beautiful Qartheen galley had sailed into the Rock’s harbor some ten years ago, he remembered somewhat vaguely. The arrival had been cause for some fanfare in the city as they brought strange animals as a gifts for the menagerie.

Perhaps these YiTish had brought a basilisk?

The menagerie’s grand old basilisk, _Chomper_ , had died some years ago. They’d been unable to purchase a replacement. Or something else even rarer would be good, too! It would be a fine reprieve from all the dark news and war of late.

“If this be true, think they brought any women?” one of Daven’s riders asked another.

“Why?” another asked. “You think you have a chance, Rorik?”

“I hear their women are taller than their men and are shaved-clean from head to toe.”

“Maybe so, but you really think they’d bring women half-way around the world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the third added. “There’ll be no womenfolk, I reckon, but silks. Aye. And queer devices, too. Gifts for Lord Tywin.”

“Let us hope this is not some mummer’s farce,” Daven spoke up, wind in his face as he rode. “If it is, then mark my words. I’ll have those merchants haggling in irons before the tide turns!”

The men laughed, and they rode on.

Reaching the entrance of the Rock took time. The huge natural promontory was generally reckoned to be about a league and a half long, short and rocky at the front and then suddenly rising high as it grew closer to the sea. The lower areas and the middle step were the longest sections, and the very top – the ‘head’ of the lion – was the smallest. At that final height, it was twice as high as the Hightower or the Wall. Daven had been up there many times, and there was a keep and signal tower that raised it even higher than what nature and the Gods had gifted the men of the West.

There was a castle in the middle tier as well, a more important one honestly as it overlooked the entrance to The Rock, with great battlements protruding from the sides to account for the slight slope of the natural rock. Huge lion statues flanked the steps up to the Golden Gate of The Rock, looking like actual lions… Daven personally didn’t think The Rock itself looked all that much like a lion in repose as people were oft to parrot. It looked more like some uneven steps sticking out of spikey hills. But that was probably just his lack of imagination at work. As a knightly Lannister, his family Masters of Horse since the time of Jason Lannister, he had seen the outline of The Rock against the shoreline every day. Familiarity had bred out most of the awe after so many years.

Also, it was infested with monkeys.

Maybe, once upon a sweet time, the lions that were reputed to have made The Rock their home would’ve kept their numbers in check. Well, those lions had pretty quickly relocated to the hills when the human-lions showed up to take ownership of all that gold under their paws. That left the monkeys to run free and now the little bastards where everywhere, stealing food, harassing men and especially women, and more, though they were smart enough not to try and sneak into the tunnels. That wasn’t to even begin on their habit of throwing… _things_.

Lannister Lions had tried to exterminate the monkeys several times, but they always survived and came back. At least they didn’t have as much of a rat problem as other castles, but still, it was vexing. Also it wasn’t exactly fitting of the glory of Casterly Rock: a lion ruled by tenacious monkeys. Not that Daven would ever say that out loud, Lannister or not. He espied a pair of the little creatures grooming on the back of one of the lion statues on his way up the steps.

Shaking his head, he put them out of mind.

The Gold Gates opened to the Lion’s Mouth, an enormous natural cavern within The Rock. The Mouth had come first, Daven knew, and the gates had been dug later to make for a proper way into The Rock that didn’t involve the winding paths first put down by the First Men in the dawn of Westeros.  Daven rode his horse right through the Lion’s Mouth. Walking would take far too long, and the route was designed with riders in mind.

The inside of the cavern was like a village built vertically into the walls, cut and carved with windows and balconies, a stable and a kennel. Storerooms and barracks were arrayed along the east side and old mining shafts branched out to meander through the rock. The Godswood was at the far end, too, in an alcove, with the twisted weirwood of the First Men. There was a small sept opposite here and a much larger one further in.

Daven rode past it all, under a gold-plated gate and into the Grand Gallery. Not to be confused with the Golden Gallery, this one served mainly to connect the Lion’s Mouth with the two castles at the middle or far end of The Rock. The middle keep was directly above, up a winding switchback path cut into the stone. The far keep, the home of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, was all the way up the inclined gallery at the end. Another branch could take one down instead of further up, and this led to the wharf and shipyard.

“Yi Ti…” Daven said to himself with a grin.

Just the name was exotic!

They had silks from Yi Ti, but almost always it was purchased through intermediaries. Corlys Velaryon the Sea Snake had ended his most famous (and profitable) voyage by visiting Yi Ti. What boy born in Westeros by the sea hadn’t at some time fantasized about being the legendary Sea Snake and going on such a grand adventure?

As he reached the docks with his entourage, he saw right away the exotic skiff on the southern pier. Rectangular and thin, it seemed almost dangerously low on the water with a hutch for cargo in the middle and men to the fore and aft. Garish colors of orange and gold and red covered the hull, along with a pole sporting even more thin strips of fabric and crowned with a monkey tail. Daven snorted in amusement at that last bit. He had heard the YiTish wore monkey tails.

Well, if they wanted some, they’d come to the right place!

A trio of men were with the skiff and Daven hurried down the steps to meet them. Their exotic garb and styles of hair, and then their faces, marked them as foreigners.  Daven was delighted. It hadn’t just been some mummer’s farce! How remarkable!

“Greetings, Lord Lannister,” the leader of the bunch said with a bow. “Your citadel is most impressive.”

Daven extended his hand and the man took it, shaking.

“Thank you. In truth, it is my honor to be a landed knight of The Rock. My cousin Lord Tywin is the true Lord of Casterly Rock… but he happens to be away in Kings Landing,” he explained, and they made usual introductions. “What brings you to Casterly Rock?”

“Ah. Yes.” The foreigner demurred. “Gold, you see?”

Gold. _Of course._ “Of course,” Daven agreed. “Well, we have that. Lannisport has the finest craftsmen in gold and silver that you’ll ever see. May I see what you bring?”

The YiTish man, Bai Lo, nodded and had one of his servants or associates bring out a tube. It was made of a strange material, stalks of some sort of stiff plant or tree, bound together with leather and lace. He opened the tube, and gingerly pulled out a bolt of fine white silk. Daven took off his gloves, tucked them into his breastplate, and carefully massaged the silk between his fingers. It was exquisite! And so pure white!

“We have gifts, but they will not fit a skiff,” the YiTish captain said.

“Animals?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Interesting!” Daven waved to the dockmaster and signed his name to permit the YiTish to berth at the main pier. Only the two biggest ones would hope to fit the ship, which he could see some distance off the coast. Crews were quickly dispatched to prepare the pier and to send out rowboats with rigging to ease the ship into dock. All standard procedure. Protocol would require he invite the captain up, serve bread and salt, and then give a small tour.

“Would you care for tea, Lord Lannister?”

“Tea?” Daven asked but was intrigued. “Yes.” That sounded interesting. “Please.”

So, while the men worked, Bai Lo set out a tiny table and a number of ingredients. A pair of cushions were set down on a clean area overlooking the pier. Daven sat, somewhat awkwardly, as the YiTish man prepared the tea: grinding the leaves in a stone bowl, transferring them to a lacquer one. Fresh, clean water was taken from a flask and poured into a kettle, which was then brought to a boil over a small fire with coals. A pot was then warmed before the hot water was added. The tea leaves were then scooped up in a metal pincer of sorts, trapping them tightly in the teeth. Finally, the metal device was added to the pot and covered, leaving the end to stick out the top. Bai Lo serenely swirled the pot, steeping the tea and then finally pouring it out into small lacquered cups.

It was all quite exotic!

Daven smiled brightly and brought the hot drink to his lips. It was not quite boiling, but still very hot. He had expected the taste to be very sharp, like tea was in Westeros, but it was actually incredibly mellow and gentle and quite sophisticated. By the time they began to drink, Bai Lo’s ship was already moving into place at the pier.

“Tea is always best shared with others,” Bai observed. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Daven replied, and held out his cup for more. “I hear there are many teas in YiTi.”

“A thousand,” Bai answered and shrugged. “A thousand teas, one for every god. Or so they say. I know of perhaps a hundred? But a thousand sounds so much more impressive.”

Daven laughed. “It does, doesn’t it!”

They were in the middle of another good-natured laugh when a sound from the dock caught Daven’s attention. He turned to see what the issue was, and if necessary berate any careless dockworkers that were mishandling gifts for The Rock, when he spied a man fly through the air, arms flailing. Another splashed into the water with a yelp.

“What in the name of the Seven?” he grumbled and started to rise onto his feet.

“Many apologies, Lord Lannister.”

A blade to the neck froze him in place.

“B-Bai Lo?” he asked, eyes darting down at the long thin blade pressed up against his exposed and unarmored neck. His hand twitched to reach for his longsword, but a bit of pressure on the skin convinced him against risking it.

“As I said, many apologies, but please remain still,” Bai insisted. His guards were also armed and had their weapons out. Daven could see, out of the corner of his eye, that his own men had drawn their weapons but were at a loss as what to do to rescue him.

A call was starting to go out, cries of shock and alarm, but…

But then, with a crash, there were men streaming out of the YiTish ship. For just a moment, Daven thought them to be Ironborn, but the armor was different, and they wore fur cloaks. _Northmen_. They were Northmen! Heavily armed and armored, savage and battle-hardened.

 _‘Northmen?!’_ Daven thought, shocked. _‘How? How? And here? Why?”_

More and more rushed out, all armed to the teeth. They cut down or captured Lannister men around the docks and rushed the doors and the gate with some sort of metal block under their arms. There were two, Daven knew, an inner gate and an outer gate, plus a portcullis. They were a defense against the Ironborn trying just such a sneak attack, provided they made it through the outer defenses and the Lion’s Paws somehow. Daven couldn’t recall them ever actually being tested.

A cry split the air and the gates to the Rock’s harbor fell, the iron falling down in ratchets to plunge into the water and block the entrance. That was the main defense against any realistic attack. Now it only served to lock him in with the Northmen. One couldn’t even swim back out.

Daven blinked and, in that moment, recognized one of the men.

That was Robb Stark. Robb Stark was _here_.

This wasn’t some clever raid!

“No. No, wait!” Daven said but winced through gritted teeth. Bai Lo still held him helpless. “Damnit!”

More Northmen, and one Northwoman it looked like, stormed and quickly secured the docks. Daven saw, to his relief, that the ones that took the first gate soon returned, waving arms and making gestures. The second gate had been barred. Thank the Gods! They wouldn’t be getting deeper into the castle now, not without a ram or an engine.

Then Bai Lo’s ship shuddered and a hatch on the top opened.

A huge form lifted itself out of the ship, like a man exiting a bathtub, and gingerly jumped off the ship onto the docks with a crash. Daven Lannister couldn’t believe his eyes. _Giant_. Literally ‘That’s a Giant’ was the first thing that came to mind. But that was crazy.

The men in the camps, the survivors of Oxcross, japed and cursed that the Starks had giants fighting for them, but that was just the usual campfire tales, like stories of Robb Stark turning into a wolf. All educated men knew that was ridiculous. Giants didn’t exist. They had once, yes, but not anymore. They were gone, like Snarks and Grumkins and Children of the Forest.

 _Gone_. They were gone. They _couldn’t_ be here.

This giant _was_ , though, and it stood tall and snorted loud enough for Daven to hear it from yards away. It wore a gambeson, _like a man_ , like it was some kind of huge _man-at-arms!_ Ludicrous! Impossible!

The giant huffed and looked down as two Northmen ran up to it with a chain.

A chain that snaked back to the entrance deeper into The Rock…

The giant creature said something, then, and wrapped the chains around its arms. Bracing itself against a sturdy outcropping of rock, it heaved, and heaved, and pulled, and with a jerk a metal portcullis clanged and bounced and tumbled down the steps. It had been pulled right out, like a weed yanked out of the dirt. The giant, taking directions like a man, then took one knee, retrieved an enormous bow from off his back, and notched an arrow long as a man was tall with a blunt tip. Pulling the huge shaft back, he released, and the thrumming arrow shot down the corridor.

There was a tremendous crash. It was the final door, Daven realized, feeling numb.

_The final gate. It was gone._

There wasn’t anything else in the way. Two gates and a portcullis. It should have been enough. In a land that made sense, it was enough. Some Ironborn who snuck in, like these Northmen had, could hack at it with axes, but they’d never get through the iron portcullis. The Rock was impenetrable. Attacks on Lannisport were expected but The Rock could not be taken. It just couldn’t.

The one Daven knew to be Robb Stark gave a command, and his men rushed onwards and inwards.

“Your sword, Lord Lannister,” Bai Lo said, and Daven remembered he was still there. The same hand that had so gently poured tea still held a slender eastern blade to his throat.

“Ser Daven,” Robb Stark said as he approached, with his men… and the giant. The giant now had a _warhammer_ long as a man was tall, and he was twacking it eagerly into his palm. Daven smelled something foul and realized one of his guards had pissed himself. He couldn’t even blame the man.

In that moment, Daven Lannister imagined what he could do.

He could try and jerk his shoulder just-so, knock the slender blade away from his neck. If he was off or his timing wrong, Bai Lo would simply slide it across his throat and that would be the end of that. If he pulled it off, he could reach for his sword and try to take out Stark. His men may or may not back him up. If they stood there, still in shock, he would probably be cut down. The Northman already had a blade and shield at the ready and he was not known for a lack of skill with either. That wasn’t even including the strange club he carried by a strap over his shoulder. Daven imagined a lunge, blocked by the wolf’s shield, and then the blade entering his armpit or throat. Even if his guards rallied and joined in, there was still the matter of Stark’s two bodyguards… and the giant. There would be no surviving a swing from that warhammer. It would turn a man into a pile of broken bones with one hit.

He closed his eyes and imagined his father, cut down at Oxcross.

He imagined Lannisport.

He imagined Cerenna and Myrielle, his poor sisters, left alone as the city came under siege. He also recalled all the troops outside. Yes. The Northmen were in The Rock, but they were surrounded, too! This really _was_ just a raid. An incredible and implausible raid, but just a raid. And his sisters would need him. Alive, he could bargain.

“Yield,” Robb Stark demanded. “I don’t have time to bandy words with you.”

“I yield. We yield,” Daven replied, and held up his arms and sunk to his knees. He let a man disarm him of his sword and knife. His men likewise surrendered their arms.

“Good. No harm will come to you, I swear it.” Robb Stark directed them to be moved together with other prisoners and held in the harbor, locked up in a storeroom with the giant outside. Daven went without a fight.

And so he waited there.

More prisoners came. Then more. Then more. All cowered, disarmed, at the sight of the giant guarding them. Not a man tested his luck.

“What’s happening out there?” Daven demanded, when the Northmen brought a duo of other Lannister men to stuff in the storeroom. One looked beaten, his face red and runny. The other didn’t have a scratch on him. Both looked to be common men, or at least no one Daven knew or recognized. The unharmed man had the Lannister sigil on his shoulder denoting a sergeant.

“My Lord?” the sergeant asked, surprised. “You’re alive?”

“Of course I’m alive!” Daven barked and lowered his tone when he saw the face of the giant as it peered down into the storeroom windows. “Of course I’m alive,” he repeated. “Now what’s going on out there? Has the army gotten word? Have ravens left?”

“My Lord, I don’t know nothin’ about the ravens or the maester,” the man admitted, “But the Northmen are all over the castle… and we heard trumpets and horns from outside. Three calls, a pause, and three calls.”

“That means attack. Obviously. We’re being attacked,” Daven growled.

Neither man had any real news.

It was only later that Daven considered that maybe the calls weren’t to announce that Casterly Rock was under attack, but to call Casterly Rock for aid. It wasn’t as if they had a call worked out for “There are enemies inside The Rock, try and get inside the most impenetrable castle in the Seven Kingdoms to help us. Best of Luck!”

Minutes turned to hours.

Hours dragged on.

Until, finally, Daven was taken from the storeroom… but not by Lannister guards who had secured the Rock and driven out the enemy. It was Northmen. Led by the savage woman in chainmail.

“His Grace wants to see you,” she explained, as the storeroom door closed behind him. A pair of armed men were at his sides. The giant, meanwhile, was sitting down and resting quite peacefully, though he still had his hammer by his side. He seemed to be whittling away at a huge piece of wood with a knife, just killing time like any man. The sight of it was just… _surreal_.

But he shook his head, willing himself not to dwell on it.

“You and yours shall never hold The Rock,” Daven assured her, putting on a brave and defiant front as she dragged him off. “Casterly Rock has never been taken in the history of Westeros!”

“Casterly Rock has never been so lightly garrisoned,” the woman reminded him. Damn her. She wasn’t wrong.

The castle had maybe a hundred men holding it this morning?

“And we took it today,” she added. “First time for everything.”

The woman identified herself as Dacey Mormont, the heir to Bear Island. Daven knew the name, though not the face, since his father had considered her as a possible match for him some years ago before deciding on Desmera Redwyne. Though Daven didn’t think his father had ever been serious about the match. Mostly he had used it as a jape, to pair his son up with a “comely she-bear” if he didn’t like the actual reachwoman he picked out for his son.  Now here she was, dragging him through Casterly Rock as a prisoner. It almost made him want to laugh. In another life, they could’ve been married in these halls, the ceremony lorded over by Lord Tywin himself.

She dragged him all the way up to the Grand Gallery and then up to the inner High Keep. Everywhere he saw dead men in Lannister crimson. At the end of the Gallery were two Stark Northmen astride horses stolen from the stables, one had a chained giant on his surcoat the other an armored fist. Up he went, into the inner keep, past the Hall of Heroes with the tomb and golden armor of ancient Lannisters long gone. The Feasting Hall went by in a blur, and the Stone Sept, and the Golden Hearths where the walls were decked in gold and precious stones, and then finally to the stateroom of Lord Tywin himself.

Robb Stark was waiting there, his back to the door.

Next to the young King was the desk of Lion of Lannister, with the papers and trappings Lord Tywin had left. None had dared touch them in his absence. The state room had a great library of books to one side and a golden armory to the other, sporting paintings and weapons and treasures from across Westeros and the world. At the end of the room, dominating it, was a view of the setting sun, overlooking both the crashing waves of the ocean below and the glittering city of Lannisport to the left. The light of the sun only added more gold to a room already drenched in it.

“Ser Daven,” Robb Stark said, and glanced over his shoulder.

“My Lord,” Daven replied, not giving the bastard the honor of a ‘Your Grace.’ He had taken The Rock with trickery! Of course, Lann the Clever had also done it with trickery, but that was in the Age of Heroes. You didn’t do that sort of thing in the _modern day!_ If you’re going to take a castle, you should besiege it honestly!

 _Gods_.

This was just like Oxcross. Just like his father Stafford. He’d been Oxcrossed.

 “I’ve seen more gold in the last few hours than I ever thought existed in my life,” the Stark King admitted with a chuckle. “There’s more in this room than in all of Winterfell.”

“The Lordly Lannisters do love gold,” Daven admitted, and approached the king. He glanced around for a weapon, but of course there was nothing. Except maybe the quill on Tywin’s desk. Wouldn’t that be a tale to tell. The pen overcoming the sword.

Followed, most likely, by the Fair Lady Dacey cutting him from chin to balls.

“You should be congratulated on taking Casterly Rock,” Daven conceded, diplomatically. This was where they fought with words not swords. “It is a feat for the history books. But you cannot hold it. Not with just a hundred men, and if I had to guess, that’s how many you have.”

“A hundred picked men… and women,” Robb replied. “But you’re right. I can no more hold the Rock with a hundred men than Theon could Winterfell with thirty or forty or however many he had.”

“Then let us deal,” Daven said, growing closer. Robb seemed to be a little distracted, looking out the fine view overlooking Lannisport and the sea. Daven joined him soon enough and saw what the young King saw.

There was an army outside… and it wasn’t wearing Lannister Crimson.

“But unlike Theon, I have an army with me,” Robb said, softly. He turned to the stunned Lannisport Lannister. “We haven’t touched the city… yet. I’d prefer it to surrender. There’s no need for a sack.”

Daven’s lips moved but no words came out. Not for a short while.

“The army… my army,” he stammered. “Where did it go?”

“Some fled into the woods, others surrendered, most ran into the city,” Robb explained without recrimination. “Their leader wasn’t there to lead them. Taking you out was just as important as taking The Rock. Look… you can see them on the walls.”

Daven reached a shaking hand up to run down his face, from cheeks to chin.

“I see,” he admitted, after a time.

The Rock had fallen, and the Starks could reinforce it. They controlled the Lion’s Mouth and the intact Great Gate and, he assumed, both castles on both tiers. They had taken it all in the span of a warm afternoon. The army of Oxcross survivors and green boys had come apart without much of a fight, with no one to lead them. Most had fled into the city. They had too few nobles and too many levies and green boys a short run from their homes and families.

That was good _in a way_ … it did Casterly Rock no favors but levies didn’t need a lot of direction just to stubbornly hold the walls of the city. It was something, at least, and it could give others time and a chance to organize… something. Daven looked out over the army the North had brought and wondered what that something would or could even be.

And it looked like there were more giants. _Gods_.

“What do you plan to do, Lord Stark?” Daven asked, more cautiously now that he had fewer cards in his hand. Luckily, the boy didn’t seem the prickly type about titles.

“We’re going to strip the Rock bare,” he answered after a moment. “This room? Tywin’s own solar? I’m going to use the gold here to personally fix what he and his mad dogs did to the Riverlands. I will make sure of that. He gave the order and he will pay the price for it, and it will come right out of his pocket.”

_The Riverlands?_

Daven recalled that Clegane and some sellswords had led the attacks there. He couldn’t speak for the sellswords, but Clegane was… well, he was a fellow Westerman, yes, but all knew he was no true knight. Daven could imagine what he had done in the Riverlands. It did not exactly fill him with pride. Cruelties happened in war, but a knight was charged _by the Mother_ to defend the innocent and _by the Maid_ to protect women. The Gods surely knew some men made a vile mockery of their vows.

And now they would all pay the price for that.

“And Lannisport?” Daven asked, but suspected he knew the answer.

“Will also need to pay for the war,” Robb Stark replied, and fixed his captive with a stern stare. “But mostly, we just want your fleet. Give us that, and the city and your people needn’t suffer. We have The Rock and all the wealth of it. We don’t have to sack Lannisport.”

That was unexpected. Daven exhaled slowly, considering his response and measuring his options. Anything that avoided a sack would be a good thing. The Rock really was lost. _Fuck it_. There was no changing that. But Lannisport could be protected… for once. Robb wanted their fleet. Why? To take back the North, seemed the obvious answer, and to fuck over the Ironborn. For a moment, Daven imagined the Northmen… but with actual ships… invading the Iron Islands.

You could sell tickets to that show in Lannisport.

“Can we make a deal?” Stark asked, after giving him some time to think it over.

Daven sighed and nodded. “Yes. I think we can make a deal.”

‘ _Not like I have a choice._ ’

“But,” he quickly added, “I want to remain your prisoner. Myself and my sisters. And I want your word of honor we will be well treated. When Lord Tywin finds out…”

Robb Stark nodded grimly. “You have my word.” They shook on it, to seal the deal.

“I would also like to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“The truth.” Daven glared at the man, demanding an answer. “Did you feed my father’s heart to your direwolf?”

Robb Stark blinked slowly at that and cocked his head in confusion.

“Did I do _WHAT?_ ”

. . .

 

 

. . .

(9) Davos (Blackwater II)

. . .

A smuggler’s goal in life was to _avoid_ fights, not to get stuck in the middle of them.

Davos Seaworth knew how to swing a sword, just as he knew how to ride a horse. He’d heard the sounds flesh made when you pulled a blade from out of a man’s guts and he knew the expression on a man’s face as he scrambled, _clawed_ , desperate to keep from falling off a slippery deck into the pitiless waters below. The Stranger’s work was not unfamiliar to him. All the same, Davos Seaworth was a smuggler at heart, not a knight, not a warrior, not a killer; he dealt in onions not death. He did not charge into the fray and he did not eagerly look for men to kill, even on a battlefield.

And there was no mistaking it, the entire south bank of Kings Landing was a battlefield. With ships beached and troops disgorged, men hit the sand and salt and rock and mud amid a storm of bolts and arrows and stones and firepots. Defenders on the walls rained down death and men below tried to return it, archers frantically finding cover from whatever they could. Rafts and boats were flipped over, some used as protection overhead, others left on their side as meager cover to fire from behind.

The Lannisters did not resist from the walls alone, either. They came _roaring_ down the beach, flanked by fires, green to the left and red to the right, and led by the murderous Hound. Their mounted horse came in first, destriers armored and blood-splattered, and Davos had marveled at the way the hooves of the horses kicked up clods of sand and mud in their wake. It was as if they were moving through molasses for a single glorious moment, visible through the spears and pikes men rushed to get into position. Then it all came back, returned to normal, and the crash was deafening.

The knights whirled, unable to disengage from the resulting melee with so little room on the beach. Behind them, screaming curses and defiance, came the men-at-arms, and the melee became a mad push of warm bodies and cold steel. Davos screamed, too, yelling until his voice was near hoarse, keeping close to his son and trying to direct the landings from the shore.

Half the sands were red from blood, the rest was red from the flames, or worse, licked by cursed green. Bodies smoldered and burned and crackled. Arrows flew up and arced down.

It was madness.

An arrow _thunked_ against a shield, a shield firm held by his son. _Thank the Gods for Matthos_. He had the actual training for this with all the vigor of youth. Davos saw the arrow, embedded in the fiery heart of his son’s shield, meant for him. Matthos lowered his arm, gave his father a nod, and continued to protect his back.

They were behind the cover of an overturned raft, fighting for their lives. The Lannister push had made it to them, though it seemed to be slowing, and it was only natural to stick together. A bloodstained man in crimson swung an axe their way, together with a mace-wielding companion, and the battle resumed, close and personal. Davos backtracked, not wanting to trade blows with an axeman, looking instead for a timely thrust. His son clashed with the maceman as another barrage of firepots landed amidst friend and foe alike.

Davos reckoned it would’ve been a fine tale to say he quickly bested his opponent. It was truer to say they were both near exhaustion and spent more time stepping about and looking for an opportunity to strike, always fearful of an attack from behind or the side. Rivulets of sweat streamed from Davos’ brow, threatening to cloud his vision. The effects of the blow to the head from before still weren’t completely gone, though the steady drumbeat of his heart and the heightened will to survive that came in combat helped blunt the throbbing, the dizziness, and the pain.

Axe met sword, glancing, testing blows, but Davos moved faster, burying his sword into the man’s cheek and then down into his neck. He gurgled something, some last unintelligible words, and fell forward into the surf. _Gods_.

“Forward! Forward!” a voice cried. “For the Lord of Light!”

“For King Stannis!” another joined in.

“For the King!” Davos joined them and felt a new energy as he pushed ahead. He wiped the edge of the sword on his breeches and began to stride.

“For the Lord of Light!” “For the King!”

“Storms End!” one Stormlander just had to be a little more original.

Davos gritted his teeth, saw his son up ahead, and kept moving. They had the momentum, now! The Lannister counterattack had hit hard but ultimately tapered off.

“The ram!” Davos called, reminding them of their duty. He really needed have bothered. They were already recovering it and forming up. Blearily, Davos saw the Mud Gate just ahead. It should have been further away. All sense of space seemed to have been addled by the fighting, or had it just gone up and down the beach?

“The Hound?” Davos yelled, more to Matthos than anyone else. His son had turned to face him, and hearing the question, shook his head.

“I don’t see any white cloaks,” he said between breaths.

Davos expression fell a bit at the news. Slaying the infamous Hound would’ve helped morale. Now the younger Clegane brother was sure to lead another attack, probably inside the walls.

“Father,” Matthos barked, and pointed with his sword. “Get to cover. The ram will need time!”

Davos nodded and patted his son on the shoulder. “Stay safe!”

‘ _You are a knight, my son. Not a smuggler. Be better than your fool of a father_.’

Having long since lost his shield, Davos quickly found one with a fiery stag and retreated a few steps to one of the overturned boats. A large number of men were there, waiting for the breech. It was all as planned. No need to provide the Lannisters will yet more easy kills outside the walls of the city. Four men were recovering fallen pavises from a raft left in the surf and bringing them to those in need. _Good men_.

The ram itself was lifted out of the mud and protected by an overturned boat. Men locked shields and used it as cover as they approached the Mud Gate and the Gatehouse up ahead. They moved more slowly under the boat, weighed down by the ram, but they made it to the gate in fairly good time and began to work. _Thud! Thud! Thud!_ The defenders rained stones and hot oil, but the ramming continued, undeterred. _Thud! Thud! Thud!_

Davos took a moment to look to the other shores.

On the other side of the Blackwater, the King’s men were not idle. They had long since begun to cross in small boats, now that the Pretender’s navy was smashed. The Wildfire made it impossible for the Royal Fleet to sail in and provide support with siege scorpions and ballistas, like they had hoped, but men could still cross. Further upstream, he also saw movement down at the end of the city wall near where the King’s Gate would be, just around the corner and out of sight.

Without more elevation, however, it was impossible to see where Stannis himself was. Wherever it was, Davos prayed he was safe. Should he fall, the army was expected to continue on to place Shireen on the Iron Throne, but Davos knew the assault would quickly disintegrate. The men were fighting for Stannis, _Stannis King_ , and it was unrealistic to expect them to fight on with their man dead. It was faithless, perhaps, and Stannis himself would grit his teeth in frustration at it, but _it was what it was_. Men were not perfect beings. Far, far from it. Convictions and weak hearts wavered.

Catching his breath, Davos took stock of their position.

The fighting had been intense, the Father and the Stranger only knew how many they had lost. The ram was making good progress, however, and they had many men on the beaches. They had their foothold, paid for in blood and sweat, the credit of widows and orphans. Soon, all too soon, the Mud Gate would be broken open. If they were lucky, they would time it to around the same time a breech was made at the King’s Gate… or at least the attack on one gate would divide attention from the other.

_Thud! Thud! Thud!_

Wiping his face with a rag, Davos took a few more deep breaths and stepped out from behind cover.

_CRACK_

There it was!

That had done it!

A cheer went up from the men, but it was followed just as quickly by a cry of alarm. For a minute, there was pure confusion as the enemy was suddenly among them. With no ordered lines of men, and the fading twilight of the not quite setting sun, it was nigh-impossible to tell who was who. Instead it became a chaotic free-for-all as men turned wildly on men.

“Stand fast!” Davos ordered, and stuck close to the men and the archers by the overturned boat. He knew them to be King’s Men at least. A man in unadorned armor charged at Davos, announcing himself as an enemy, and Davos moved to protect the archers behind him. Sword rang against sword, but Davos was more refreshed than before, and traded blows with more confidence. A thrust to the chainmail of the man elicited a grunt but no mortal wound, but the blow to the head sent him tumbling. Davos drove his blade down and finished the job, adding one more body to the beach.

“Hold your ground!” he yelled, and men joined in his cry. “For King Stannis! Stannis King!”

A quick look confirmed that there was confusion about the King’s Gate, but it was hard to see more than the wild milling and movement of men and standards. Another counterattack, of course, but from where? There must have been some way around, a postern gate like, possibly installed only recently. _Clever_. No one ever claimed the Lannisters were not clever.

But they lacked the numbers.

Another man fell to Davos’ blade before the fighting seemed to die down. There was no Hound in this bunch, but there _was_ a white cloak. Having caught sight of it, Davos began to approach, but warily. He had no illusions of his chances against a Kingsguard, but all the same, he led these men. He had to be close by and assist however he could.

Then, to his surprise – and relief – the white cloak swirled and fell!

It seemed someone else had done the deed. The man would be commended. Davos picked up his pace to make sure it was done. Stannis would reward the man or knight responsible. His pace slowed, however, when he saw what looked to be a boy in boiled leathers cradling a fallen man in gold and crimson. Those were Lannister colors, and yet Davos was certain this boy, a squire likely, had felled the Kingsguard. Looking down at the body, the old smuggler saw the remains of a spear sticking out of the knight’s face. Indeed, he was quite _thoroughly_ dead.

A roar caught his attention and he saw one of his own men charging the boy.

“Hold!” Davos commanded, and the man frowned, mid-charge, but obeyed. Davos would scarce be mistaken for the enemy, not with a flaming stag on his shield and breast.

“We yield!” the squire yelled up at them, still holding his master in his arms. The face was slashed and bloody, but the proportions of the body in the armor… Davos could guess who this was.

There were not so many Imps in the Royal Family.

“We yield!” the boy said again. “My name is Podrick Payne of House Payne! T-t-this is Lord Tyrion Lannister! A valuable hostage! But h-he needs a maester!”

“Do you see many maesters around here?” Davos asked, but just as quickly wrangled the charging man from before and a second nearby. “You. You. Take these two to the _Black Betha_ with the other lordly prisoners.”

“Yes, m’lord!” “Right away, m’lord!”

Davos still felt uncomfortable being called a lord, but he didn’t let it show in his demeanor.

He watched them go for only a short time, then focused back on the task at hand. “To the Gate! To the city!”

The Mud Gate was broken.

The way was clear. All they had to do now was storm between Aegon’s High Hill and Visenya’s, help the men at the King’s Gate secure the Sept of Baelor on the latter hill, and then encircle the Red Keep. The city roads would need to be cleared and new engines readied. Taking the city was the first critical step, but it wasn’t the end.

Joffrey and his mother, and probably the rest of the so-called Royal Family, would be holed up in the Red Keep and probably Maegor’s Holdfast. The Red Keep itself was a formidable fortification: it had massive curtain walls and seven well-built drum-towers arranged somewhat like a star, similar to Dragonstone. The barbican over the main entrance would be a particular challenge, and there was a moat to prevent simply seizing the walls. Even after it fell, there was Maegor’s Holdfast to overcome… a keep within a keep, with a dry moat lined with iron spikes.

Inside the city, the spears of the Gold Cloaks met them in defiance. Men rushed by Davos to overwhelm them, pushing and pushing through, locking shields. A King’s Man howled as a spear thrust removed his lower jaw. They broke through the spearpoints eventually, though, weight of numbers and ferocity telling the tale.

Finally, Davos Seaworth set foot back in the city in which he had been born.

He allowed himself a deep breath of the city air, stinking as it was, now further befouled by the smell of blood and death. Flea Bottom was up north, near the Dragonpit and Rhaenys's Hill. They could ignore it for now. It wouldn’t be like the sack that ended Aerys the Second, when the Lannisters came in from the north and burned their way from the Gate of the Gods to the Red Keep.

The True King had at last returned to reclaim what was his by rights. The men would be restrained. Davos swore it. Their blood was up, and Davos could understand a little pillage, but there would be no fires and no massacres while he had command.

The Gold Cloaks were soon sent scurrying, and Davos turned to direct men to secure the gate and start bringing in the equipment from the boats. The ladders would be the easiest. The first ram was still salvageable, but they had a second designed to be assembled within the walls. Matthos was well able to assume command from here, securing the streets. Davos looked briefly up at the looming Red Keep, so close he could see men atop its walls. There would be more arrows flying all night from on high.

Stepping back outside, Davos started to direct the engineers.

They were making good progress. Things seemed to be sorted out at the King’s Gate, too. That was good. If the Gods were with them… or the Lord of Light… then perhaps Stannis could sit the Iron Throne by morning. It was even possible to have it by tonight. Not _impossible_ , certainly. It depended on how many men and boys the Lannisters had in the Keep itself and how eager they were to die for a Pretender. One couldn’t simply _roll over_ a well defended castle or keep, regardless of Lord Tywin’s miraculously speedy advance through the Riverlands.

Wading into the shallows, Davos was in the middle of helping a group of men haul down parts for a catapult when a glint of movement caught his eye. It was coming from the other shore, the other side of the Blackwater.

It was a roiling storm of steel and horseflesh.

“What in…? …No. Can’t be. No!” Davos dropped the load in his hands and waded deeper into the water.

He saw it all.

Most of Stannis’ men were still on the other side of the Blackwater waiting to cross. There was order, yes, but the rearguard looked distracted or out of formation. Many clearly saw or were alerted to the enemy, Davos could see them trying to turn and form up, to react, but they were too slow and too late. They had been caught flat-footed, too damn much of their focus on the far side of the river and the city. The knights hit them like the Warrior himself come again, scything deep into and through their lines, visible from afar with all their streaming banners in green aflutter. It was a massacre. Even before the hammer-blow, men were streaming in panic for the river and the boats.

“Defensive formations!” Davos yelled, and spun around, trying to take stock of what he had. Mostly, it was engineers and siege-men. It dawned on him with mounting horror that there was no-one, no-thing, here that could resist a charge down the banks of the Blackwater. Were the enemy on this side, too? Had they split downriver?

It took a moment, but he saw that they had. There was another armored column descending on the King’s Gate, but it was much further away. It was possible the force there could resist them, but if they broke, the force at the Mud Gate was already in the city. They would be rolled up like a Myrish rug.

“Fall back to the Gate,” Davos said, and began to yell. To find men to pass on the orders. “Fall back to the Gate! Find Matthos! **Get our men back to the Gate!** ”

Drawing his sword, Davos Seaworth felt his blood run cold.

The victory had turned on its head in a moment, just like that. It would be a miracle if they survived, much less turned this around. They had to prepare for the worst. There was no choice.

“You!” Davos grabbed a nearby man, one of the siege engineers. He had a fox on his chest. _A Florent_. “Go back to the ships! We need them to be ready to pick up as many as we can! The men there will know what to do! Go!”

Men trickled in, and Davos tried to organize them, but within minutes he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

The King’s Gate was about to be hit.

He knew it in his bones. His hand wrapped around the pouch that hung from his neck.

 _It wouldn’t be enough_.

. . .

 

 

 

. . .

(10) Jorah II

. . .

Qarth styled itself the _Queen of Cities_.

Perhaps it was, but Jorah Mormont thought it more a waste of time than anything else. Great and sprawling and beautiful was noble Qarth; it was perhaps the most colorful city Jorah had ever seen, and it was as large as Pentos… which was to say Kings Landing and Oldtown could both squeeze into its massive walls, though Oldtown would have to hold its breath and Kings Landing suck in the gut. It was undoubtably a pleasure to see the legendary Triple Walls of Qarth with his own eyes, heralded as one of the nine Wonders Made by Man by Lomas Longstrider. They were short by Westerosi standards, none higher than fifty feet, but all three encircled the majority of the city and they were each covered by a beautiful mural stretching miles upon miles. The outermost wall depicted scenes of wild animals, the middle wall scenes of war and past glory, the innermost and highest wall scenes of passionate lovemaking. It was their artistry that made them a wonder, not their size or sophistication. The exile from Bear Island could appreciate that.

In a way, that love of artistry and appearance described Qarth as a whole. It was a city of performers and merchants, and the two trades oft overlapped. Trade was the lifeblood of Qarth as it was most port cities; it stood stride the most common trading route from Yi Ti, Leng and Asshai to Slaver’s Bay, Volantis and the Summer Islands. Yet as much wealth was spent towards accruing more wealth, just as much or more was spent on ostentatious display. Qarth was a colorful city, covered heads to toe in sculptures and mosaics and tiles and portraits and fabrics. The individual buildings looked and smelled sweet, though in the streets the mixture of a thousand different fragrances could assail the senses and every manse had to pioneer a new design.

Such was Qarth, Queen of Cities.

“I see a deep sadness upon your face, my light of love. Could it be the sadness of a lost dream?”

“A dream delayed, no more.”

Close by, Daenerys spoke with their host in the city, one Xaro Xhoan Daxos. The two were riding in a palanquin pulled by great oxen, one black and the other white. The sheer curtains of the ride provided only modest privacy, turning the pair into a silhouette, but did little to mask their conversation. Jorah rode alongside on his horse – technically it was still Lady Lin’s, even after all this time, but she never seemed to mind – close enough to easily overhear. Aggo also rode again, much to his delight, but ahead of the palanquin to clear their path with snaps of his whip.

“Make way for the Mother of Dragons!” he barked and bellowed to those too slow to move aside. “Move aside, Milk Men!”

The horse he rode was also Lin’s, a gift to Daenerys, but the Dothraki’s eyes had lit up with joy to be in the saddle again after so much walking. It was kind of sad in a way. Jorah had seen a few Dothraki not of Daenerys’ _khalasar_ but who had made their way to the city, ending their journey homeless on the streets. Their only skills were on the battlefield, but they made for poor guards and had nothing but contempt for the same men they offered to ‘protect.’ Daenerys had been sorely tempted to try and save them, but Jorah had reminded her that they could not be trusted and that, most likely, they had been enemies of Drogo or had abandoned her after his death.

Beyond that, the sad truth was that they already had enough mouths to feed.

“Did you flatter them?”

“Shamelessly.”

“Did you weep?” Xaro asked, and his tone seemed to hint he knew the answer.

“The blood of the dragon does _not_ weep,” Daenerys answered imperiously. Jorah grinned at that, but also knew it was probably a mistake. To not weep would be seen as a sign of barbarism in Qarth and especially among the haughty Pureblood. Not that Jorah believed it would’ve ultimately made much of a real difference.

“You ought to have wept,” Xaro said with a sad sigh.

Xaro lamented the faithlessness of men. Jorah lamented the waste of gold, and he suspected his _khaleesi_ did, too. They had spent quite a lot of time and money and energy bribing and cajoling a mummer’s cast of characters: buying sacrifices from rich priests at the Temple of Memory, bribing a man to have the chance to bribe another man to have the chance to bribe the actual man they wanted to bribe, some poof with a special list wrought on golden tablets, a keeper of an oversized valyrian steel key, and then a number of others to facilitate introductions before actual introductions could be made. All this had been done so that an invitation might arrive with some blue silk slippers, which Daenerys promptly wore to see the Enthroned Pureblood of Qarth at the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. At least it all _sounded_ impressive… would probably make for a fine chapter or two in a book someday.

“Suppose I sent Ser Jorah to demand the return of my gifts?” Daenerys mused, and Jorah had to keep from chuckling. It was an unwise request, but he’d be seriously tempted to do it with a smile. Just to see the shocked looks on a lot of weeping faces.

“Suppose a Sorrowful Man came to my palace in the night and killed you as you slept?” Xaro replied, and he probably had the right of it. That _did_ sound like something the Qartheen would do. No, the gold was gone.

They could make more, he wagered, but probably not more than they had just spent.

It had all come from gifts. Xaro had been their host and he had spread word of the Dragon Queen far and wide. Rich and poor, men had come from afar to see her and offer tokens for luck, for her beauty, or just so brag to their friends that they had done so. Some wished to touch a living dragon. Others to just marvel at them. More than a few stared a little longer than Jorah preferred at the Dragon Queen’s bared breast, part of the traditional Qartheen ensemble of silks and pearls. Saffron and silver, lace and amber, dyes and dragonglass… they had sold it all, including many of Xaro’s own gifts, all of it save for a three headed crown that caught Daenerys’ fancy. Even Lady Lin had pitched in, buying the dried up and well-preserved corpse of a sorcerer for “study.” It promptly vanished the next day, so maybe it was magical.

“Come with me to the Arbor, Xaro, and you’ll have the finest vintages you’ve ever tasted,” Daenerys entreated, not for the first time or the last. “Surely a warship is not harder to find than a pleasure-barge.”

“Alas, war is bad for trade. As I have said many times, Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a man of peace.”

And there they went again, doing the usual dance, around and around. Jorah had heard it a dozen times, and basically tuned it out. Instead he gripped the reins tight and took a moment to look around at the city. It was rather nice having one of the few horses in Qarth. The “Lamb’s Curse” was ironically called the “Horselord’s Pox” here, and sure enough it had wiped out the local Essosi horses.

Most of the living horses in the city now came from overseas. They were expensive imports and there was a very profitable trade in importing them, profitable enough that many slave ships had quickly re-fitted to be transporters of horseflesh. The foreign horses seemed to all be thriving, too. Jorah knew a little about horse breeding and estimated that equine populations in Essos could return to semi-normal in four or five decades. It would be too late for some, but mayhaps there was an enterprising _khal_ out there switching to donkeys? Gods, wouldn’t that be a sight to see? Fifty thousand screamers with _arakhs_ flashing… all riding asses.

Jorah shook his head and tried to keep from snickering. He did have a few Dothraki he considered comrades, but by the Old Gods and the New, the image was just too funny. He couldn’t entirely regret imagining it.

“Forget warships. Marry me instead, bright light, and sail the ship of my heart!” Xaro pleaded and Jorah rolled his eyes.

From another man, maybe, those words could have been sincere. Everyone knew Xaro liked his capering young boys and strong well-oiled manservants too much to really mean half of what he said to the _khaleesi_. He knew Daenerys knew it, too. Words were just wind with this one, as meaningless as his tears. What he likely wanted was Daenerys’ dragons, or at least one of them.

“I _shall_ sail, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, and when I arrive in Westeros, I shall drink the wine of vengeance from the cup of the Usurper’s skull!”

“Just make sure you dust it off first,” Jorah whispered to himself. Daenerys’ will was strong. She _would_ return to Westeros someday. Though it frustrated him, personally, he was proud of her unwavering determination.

Of course, willpower and determination didn’t buy ships or _worse_ , pay the crew of those ships.

No, they needed gold for that.

Up ahead provided a distraction from their impending monetary crisis and lack of genuine allies. Aggo was already holding his whip back, knowing he couldn’t just snap and crack his way through the hold-up ahead. Along this road of the Grand Bazaar was a near solid wall of men and women, gathered to watch a mummer put on a show. Yet this was no common mummer or street performer, but some sort of weaver of flames and smoke. A shadowbinder perhaps. Jorah had heard of their evil ilk and even seen one in the person of Quaithe.

“A firemage,” Aggo explained to Daenerys when she wondered what was behind the delay and poked her head out from the silken curtains of the palanquin. She insisted on seeing more and so mounted Aggo’s horse to watch.

“Do you think him truly a mage, Ser Jorah?” Daenerys asked, glancing back at him.

“Mayhaps, _khaleesi_ ,” he replied, “Asshai is not so far from here.” _Or maybe it is just an elaborate trick_.

A man in orange and black robes stood on a bare platform only a foot above the streets, gesticulating with his hands and arms as he conjured up what appeared to be a ladder of flame. Higher and higher it rose up into the air, towards the latticework of a roof’s awning. Jorah also noticed cutpurses moving amongst the crowd of awed patrons. No doubt many would leave the performance unexpectedly lighter by a pound or two.

Soon the fiery ladder was forty feet high and the man began to climb. He made a production of it, too, pretending to fall not once but twice. The ladder itself dissolved behind him, the rungs of it turning to smoke. It was quite a show. No doubt the cutpurses in the crowd were happy to be partnered with such a fine showman.

“A trick,” Aggo scoffed angrily. Dothraki were not fans of magic. Pull a copper from behind their ear and they’d probably try and stab you.

“That was no trick.”

And speak of the Stranger. _Quaithe_.

Now this one was _definitely_ a Shadowbinder. Quaithe had been one of the three representatives sent from Qarth to see if the self-styled Mother of Dragons actually had _real Dragons_. She had offered words of warning under the gates of Qarth, sound ones really, but common sense: that many would come lusting after her dragons. Her red lacquered mask and black attire were distinctive in the crowd; Jorah wondered how he had missed seeing her before.

“And what becomes of a trick, when enough people see through it?” another woman asked, appearing at Quaithe’s side. It was the lively Lady Lin. Much as before, in the Red Wastes, Zhu Lin wore her foreign clothes, a well-made tunic and cloak, and made no attempt to disguise herself with Qartheen fashions. Her black hair, highlighted with streaks of blue, had grown down well past her shoulders and was secured with a silver clip encrusted with jade.

Jorah was rather happier to see the YiTish lady than the shadowbinder.

Over the weeks and months, Lady Lin had proven a good friend and a fine role model for the young _khaleesi_. They had worried for a time that she was a _maegi_ , and perhaps she did have some magic about her, but Jorah thought of her almost as a maester. Daenerys had never had a maester _or_ the formal education required for a noble in Westeros much less a _royal_.

It was an oversight that simply couldn’t be helped, he understood, but it would or could have caused trouble down the road when they did return to Westeros. Lady Lin, however, seemed knowledgeable in most anything asked of her, and Daenerys never failed to come to her with questions and inquiries. The Gods alone knew how much better his education on Bear Island could have gone had the maester been an attractive woman and not a man older than his grandfather and losing his wits. She was a positive influence, Jorah thought, glad to see her; an influence to check the Dothraki and the Essosi in general. Despite being from Essos herself. Such were the many little ironies of life.

“If all men had gold, few would kill for it,” Quaithe answered Lady Lin with what could have been a chuckle. “But magic is _power_ , and power never loses its luster.”

“The man was a shadowbinder then?” Daenerys asked, still seated behind Aggo on her horse.

“Hardly,” Quaithe answered with a dismissive flick of her eyes. “But half a year ago, that man could scarcely rouse fire from dragonglass. He could brew wildfire… copy the powders of the Red Priests. He could walk on coals and make burning roses bloom for a crowd. Nothing more. He could no more climb the fiery ladder than a fisherman could catch a kraken in his nets.”

Daenerys looked over to where the show had taken place, thinking on what that meant.

“And now?” she asked, glancing at Quaithe.

“And now his powers grow, _khaleesi_ , and you are the cause of it.”

“Me?” Daenerys wondered, and narrowed her eyes, “Or my dragons?”

Quaithe’s eyes squinted in a way that Jorah could almost mistake for amusement. “You must leave this city soon, Mother of Dragons. Leave soon or you will never be permitted to leave at all.”

“Is that a threat, my lady?” Jorah asked, and the ‘lady’ was entirely polite.

“No threat, Jorah Mormont,” Quaithe answered, raising her hands to show she meant to harm. “Merely a telling.”

A frowned. “Is that so?”

“And where would you have us go?” Daenerys asked.

“To go north you must journey south, to reach the west you must go east,” Quaithe spoke in riddles. “To make a landing you must fly and to grasp the light you must conquer the shadow.”

Jorah couldn’t speak for most of that nonsense, but he knew his way around a map. South? The only things of import south of Qarth were Great Moraq, the Jade Sea, and… the Green Hell of Sothoryos. Gods protect them if they ever ventured there. And the only things to the east were Yi Ti, Leng, and Asshai. It wasn’t the _worst_ idea since the Ironborn, but not a one of any of those things were like to help them get back to Westeros.

Jorah could see Daenerys was equally skeptical.

“Will I find ships in the jungles of Sothoryos?” Daenerys asked with more than a little pique. “Will I find gold on Great Moraq? Soldiers in Asshai? Sympathy in Yi Ti?”

“I wish you good fortune, Daenerys Targaryen,” Quaithe answered without actually answering anything, bowed, and somehow vanished into the crowd in the blink of an eye. Jorah growled under his breath. _Shadowbinders_.

“ _Khaleesi_ ,” Aggo voiced his discontent more openly. “Venom drips from a snake’s fangs as lies do from the mouth of that woman. Her kind are the spawn of shadows. They cannot be trusted. It is known.”

“I don’t trust her either,” Jorah said, more simply.

Daenerys mulled over that, but asked for one more opinion she valued, “What do you think, Lady Lin?”

Lady Lin had remained behind and seemed to be deep in thought herself.

“Hmm?” she asked with a bright smile, snapping out of her thoughts. “Oh, you mean Quaithe? She’s actually quite interesting! When she spoke of improved abilities, she really meant her own. You’d expect her to be happy about that, but from what I can tell, she’s mostly just frightened by this reawakened-magic business. Portents of doom and all that good stuff. I will note that despite her evasiveness, and her choice in career, she never lied to you in that conversation. She didn’t even lie to _me_ when we were talking earlier; said it would be pointless.”

Lady Lin crossed her arms over her chest and nodded sagely. “A very serious woman, but forthright, despite the usual silly riddles. She helped me with my shopping, too, and I do love shopping with a buddy.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Aggo repeated. “It is known.”

“How do you know she wasn’t lying?” Jorah asked.

“Optical Polygraph.”

“What?”

“Another way of saying woman’s intuition!” Lin explained and winked at him. “We women have our secrets, Ser Jorah!”

Daenerys laughed at that. “So true! Please, Lady Lin. Join us?”

“I’d be happy to, Daenerys!”

Without further ado, the YiTish lady climbed up into the palanquin with the khaleesi and a somewhat confused Xaro Xhoan Daxos. The Qartheen merchant had met Lin before, but couldn’t seem to figure out how to speak with her or what her role in things was. Jorah and Aggo, left on their horses, glanced at one another and sighed. Then they continued on their way back to Xano’s palace.

Soon enough they were back in their private quarters. Daenerys changed as quickly as she could into a robe of purple silk, and while the dragons charred and feasted on cubes of meat purchased at the bazaar, the humans nibbled on olives doused in the fruit-wine the Qartheen loved so much. For this, Lady Lin actually provided a most interesting tool: a “pitter” she called it, and it somewhat resembled a walnut crusher. A recessed area, like a spoon, held the olive in place and a long tooth pressed down and punched the pit right out when you squeezed it all together. Lady Lin had gifted one to Xaro Xhoan Daxos in appreciation for hosting them. He’d never seen it before, however, which meant it likely wasn’t some YiTish invention.

Regardless of where it came from, Jorah and Daenerys made full use of it.

They talked as they relaxed, or rather, _he and Daenerys_ talked while Lady Lin buried herself in her ‘book of notes,’ taking meticulous measurements of an ugly, twisted dragonglass sculpture she had recently acquired. The _khaleesi_ was most displeased not only by the Pureborn, but by Xaro’s repeated refusals to provide any halfway tangible military assistance. Jorah was certain he didn’t want Daenerys to leave and that was basically the root and stem of it. Daenerys had clearly thought him more pliable, _more like Illyrio_ , who she still had something of a fondness for, though Jorah tried to explain that Illyrio’s kindness was still self-serving. It was no use. He suspected she would always be grateful to the fat man for giving her the dragon eggs and protecting her from the Usurper, no matter what he said to the contrary.

The conversation turned, in the end, back to the sad facts of it all: they had few or no friends in the Free Cities and even fewer in Westeros, where even the loyal houses could not be counted on anymore. There was no safe place in the west to gather forces, and while there was not much hope of finding a friend in the east, either, at least they had no enemies there. Staying in Qarth had been fine for a nonce, but they were running on borrowed time here, too.

“Nothing knits a broken realm together so quick as an invading army upon its soil,” he reminded her. “The realm united gladly behind your grandfather to oppose Maelys the Monstrous in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and they even rallied around the Usurper when the Greyjoys rebelled. We cannot be seen as the Blackfyres come again.”

“I am their _rightful queen_ ,” Daenerys insisted with force and fury.

“And they should risk their lives for your rights?”

Daenerys and Jorah both turned to Lady Lin, who seemed to be gently stroking Rhaegal’s dark green tail. She had little fear of Daenerys’ dragons, not that she had ever had much fear to begin with. The dragons also liked those who fed them regularly and seldom snapped at their mother’s closest friends and advisors, Jorah included. Though he would be hesitant to let them lounge on his shoulders as Daenerys encouraged them to do with her.

“What kind of question is that?” Daenerys asked, and there was a hint of anger still there. “I _am_ their rightful queen.”

“Again: why should they care that you are the rightful queen?” Lin asked, idly. “How does it benefit them? How would their lives be any different? And don’t say it is your _gods given right_ , or else I’ll ask when you think the gods will give the throne back to you.”

Daenerys seemed about to snap a response, but paused, took a breath, and thought a moment longer. Jorah was actually a little surprised to see it. Usually, if there was one topic above all others that frustrated the young _khaleesi_ and caused her to dig in her heels, it was this.

“If the rightful queen is not in her _rightful_ place, then who is to say any of their own _rightful_ seats are secure?” Daenerys asked instead. “Justice at the top reflects justice below.”

Lady Lin smiled gently and rewarded Rheagal’s patience with a sliver of lamb. “Now that’s a more interesting observation. Where does it lead?”

Daenerys sat upright and thought again, for a few quiet seconds.

“No one in Westeros knows us, and what they do know of us will be tarnished by falsehoods,” she reasoned. “And,” she grudgingly admitted, “some truths as well. My brother often said that the smallfolk sung songs of our return and nobles secretly plotted of our restoration, yet when the Usurper died not a one came east to find me. It takes a year to travel from Pentos to Qarth,” she recalled from meeting Quhuru Mo, the Summer Island captain. “It is possible many are on their way, but after what I have heard about my father… about recent history… I doubt it is so.”

“I am the rightful queen of Westeros,” she repeated, but more calmly than before. “But I must convince others that I am so. I must… make it worth the risk for them to fight for me… to risk _their_ lives for _my_ rights, _their_ seats for _my_ seat.”

“What makes you different from the current boy on the Iron Throne?” Lin inquired.

Daenerys smirked. “I have dragons, for one.”

“Baby dragons,” Lin corrected her, “Cute little buggers. But besides that?”

“I… I am not sure as yet,” Daenerys admitted, but settled quickly on, “Justice, for one. The Usurper’s heir, if he is even his heir, has already shown himself unfit to rule. Half the realm hates him and wishes him dead.”

‘ _Thanks to old Ned Stark_ ,’ Jorah thought. ‘ _And his unflinching honor_.’

“I have the weight of tradition behind me,” she continued. “The Baratheons attainted House Targaryen yet derive their legitimacy from us, not even through the male line but the female, so there is no prior precedent there. My female descent is more recent than theirs. Maegor was also properly crowned and anointed a king, by what right did Aegon or Jaehaerys have to rise against him after they were formally disowned?”

“Debatable reasoning, but much better than ‘I am the rightful queen,’” Lady Lin said, rather approvingly. “As you Westerosi say, words are wind… but wind has power. The power to destroy cities and the power to build them.”

“That may be so, my lady,” Jorah interrupted, “but if we accept all that as true, then if all of House Targaryen were dead, then the crown would pass legitimately to House Baratheon. We are but one blade away from it all being rendered moot. Do arguments like this not invite assassination?”

“I’d think simply calling yourself queen invites a certain sort of attention,” Lin argued. “No matter the fine details of your arguments.”

“I can craft a message…” Daenerys spoke up, growing more confident not simply in the rightness of her convictions but in the reasoning behind it. “A message that we are coming not to re-conquer Westeros, but like brave Aegon and wise Jaehaerys, to rebuild it and restore it, and put to rights what has been wronged. We are not well known, but we will _make_ ourselves known. We come not just with Fire and Blood, but with an open hand.” She pouted and relaxed back into her cushions. “Something like that. Even the Conqueror himself knew when to embrace a former enemy.”

“ _Khaleesi_ \--” Jorah began to say.

“Or when to use a former enemy against a newer or truer enemy,” Daenerys added with a considerate murmur. “Yes. Fire and Blood, but Words, too, and Mercy. That is how the Iron Throne was made.”

But what words? What mercy? Which friends? The Tyrells? The Martells? There was no word from the _friends_ of House Targaryen. They were abandoned by one and all, on the edge of the world.

“An alliance is forming that you should know about,” Lady Lin ventured, after a short pause amongst them. She crossed her legs together primly and rested her hands on her knee. “You know that I am more than I appear? I am also a friend of the Orange Emperor, who should by now be ruling in Tiqui.”

“What?” Daenerys shot back up. “You’ve told me about this Emperor, but…”

“So, he is your liege lord, then?” Jorah asked, and nodded once. “I knew you were noble from the moment we met… but I wouldn’t have guessed this was your man?”

“The Orange Emperor wishes to find a friend and ally in the Kingdom of Westeros and has sent an envoy to the Kingdom of the North and Trident,” Lady Ling explained, grey eyes serious. “The reasons for this are many-fold. There is a New Order in the making that will put to right Essos, both west and east, and Westeros as well. The Free Cities and others will oppose it. They will not give up slavery or their autonomy without a fight, you can be certain of that. Volantis in particular is an issue, despite our high hopes for it. I was asked to seek you out to determine if you were inclined to turn your eyes and ambitions… and dragons… east or west.”

“Westeros is my home,” Daenerys insisted, but Lady Lin had their full attention. “It calls to me. In my heart, I _know_ it is my destiny, I _know_ it, even if only to die there by an assassin’s blade.”

Lady Lin nibbled gently on her thumbnail. “Too bad, in a way. Like I said, the Free Cities are being a pain in the-” she coughed and promptly folded her hands in her lap. “-well, nevermind that for now. Why don’t you come with me to Tiqui? If things work out, we have ships and men for you at Jinqi.”

 _Jinqi_. Jorah knew that name. It was a city on the far side of Yi Ti, on the northeastern edge of the Jade Sea. Was this offer really genuine? _Gods_. Maybe he would get to travel the east with Daenerys as he had once proposed, before she became Mother of Dragons.

“Further east?” Daenerys sounded worried. “Then how would we get home?”

“East is west, Daenerys,” Lady Lin said, and with a hint of exasperation. “We can take you to Westeros by going further east.”

“No. No, that’s impossible!” Jorah objected, scowling at the foreign woman. “None have sailed across the Sunset Sea and survived!”

“Then you’ll be surprised to run into some men who have done just that when you get to Tiqui,” Lin replied with raised eyebrows, slim and arched. “It is the opening of the Sunset Sea for trade that makes all this possible.”

Jorah thought to object further, to say it couldn’t be possible, but… but what if it was? What if it was all true? Lady Lin had done them no wrong before, but then so had others. Was this all a trap? A trick? And even if they did get to Westeros, they had no army.

“How would we get to Tiqui?” Daenerys asked, seeing Jorah turn silent. “I will not abandon my people, either. They crossed the Red Waste with me. I _will_ find my khalasar a home.”

“The entourage is troublesome, but we can deal with it.”

“Entourage?”

“Your _khalasar_ ,” Lady Lin explained, and gestured with her hands over an invisible map. “We’ll take the Sand Road through the desert of the Dry Bones to Tiqui, with a quick stop at Bayasabhad. I have a friend there studying the Patrimony and how their breeding practices have impacted their development. We’ll have a warm welcome.”

Daenerys was clearly interested, and she studied Lady Lin for a long time. Jorah knew she had come to trust the woman, to confide in her. They had both suspected she was, in her own words, more than she appeared, but to make this kind of offer…

“Why did you not make this offer earlier?” the last Targaryen asked. “Why did you wait until now?”

Lady Lin sighed and seemed to understand the bitterness in the young woman’s tone.

“Because you needed to try it your own way first,” she replied and held out her hands as an offering. “Because I didn’t think you would make the impression I wanted you to make until recently… and because, honestly, I wasn’t ready on my end to make any promises. I _still_ need some time to work on things here before we leave… including a little field trip to the House of the Undying.” She sounded contrite and leaned towards Daenerys. “Do you still trust me?”

“My dragons trust you,” Daenerys answered and rolled her eyes. “Of course, my dragons seem to trust anyone who keeps their bellies full.” She reached out and took Lin’s hands. “Yes, I still trust you, and I still have much to learn from you. This Orange Emperor won’t pester me about marriage, will he?”

Lady Lin opened her mouth to say ‘no’ but then just kind of demurred and mumbled.

“Wonderful.”

“He’s a handsome guy, actually. If you like the hot-blooded, passionate type…”

“And this is where I excuse myself,” Jorah said with a groan. Some things he did not need to hear women talk about, _especially these two women_.

Still, he kept close by.

There was much on his mind with this sudden revelation. They were headed further east, to hear tale of it, ultimately _so far east_ it would become west. Just like Quaithe had foretold, though maybe she was party in some way to Lady Lin’s plans? If they left Jinqi, then they’d be passing by Asshai… perhaps even stop there. Jinqi was just another rich port city but Asshai had a black reputation, right up there with Nefer, K’dath and Carcosa. Then there was the whole business with the Orange Emperor, who Jorah knew nothing about, and some sort of grand alliance with Westeros or a Kingdom of Winter come again? It was all… just so fantastical.

After Drogo’s death, even if it had been an old man’s dream, he had still imagined that maybe…

‘ _No. No, that was just a stupid dream._ ’

Jorah shook his head, forcibly dispelling the familiar ruminations. It was all a fool’s dream. Lynesse come again, but not yet brought to ruin. He knew it. Likely Daenerys knew it. Sometimes, _the way she looked at him_ … but what mattered was her happiness, and yes, her success. She would make a good queen, a true queen, a rightful queen. She had it in her. He saw it in how she survived tragedy, how she cared for and led those loyal to her, and so much more. The future was less dangerous now than it had been an hour ago, but even **more** uncertain.

It was like the pillars of the world were all being pulled out, one by one.

And when they were all gone, what would be left?

. . .

 


	4. Chapters 11, 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (11) Jaime (7k)  
> (12) Bran (8.1k)

. . .

(11) Jaime

. . .

Kings Landing had seen better days.

It had seen worse ones, too. Jaime knew _that_ from personal experience. The last time his father visited with an army, for example; _that_ had not been a jolly evening for the people of the city. This time the proud Lannister lion flew from the battlements alongside the crowned stag, and the people cheered… or at least they showed due deference where they could be seen by soldiers and goldcloaks. Or was that being too jaded? The city _had_ been saved from the usurper and his fire priests and rapist reachmen and whatever else the barkers on the streets were claiming.

It didn’t matter. Ugly and stinking as Kings Landing was, for better or worse, whole or in part, he was home. Jaime reflected on that as he was shaved and washed by the Red Keep’s servants. A guard had joked not ten minutes prior that he must have boldly escaped from the clutches of the murderous wolves and that it was probably quite the tale of heroism. Aye, it was a tale to be sure, but he had not escaped on his own, nor was he the hero of it.

Catelyn Stark had freed him, and Brienne of Tarth had seen him to safety.

 _Less a hand_ , of course.

“Tell your father, Roose Bolton commanded it,” Vargo Hoat had slobbered. The Crippler himself.

Honestly, Jaime wasn’t sure if Roose Bolton had given such a command or not, or if the filthy Lord Goat of the Bloody Mummers wasn’t just playing some game with them. He had also boasted about contacting Rickard Karstark, since the old man had promised the hand of his daughter Alys to any who recaptured the Kingslayer. It didn’t much matter in the end. None of it did. He and Brienne had survived on their own merits and escaped with their own skills: fighting bandits, sellswords, even Stark men, sneaking through the bush, finding food where they could… **_surviving_**.

And now Brienne rested in a dungeon while he bathed in oils.

Jaime promised himself it would only be temporary. He would see her out of the cells, and he would see her quest honored. Arya Stark and Sansa Stark. He was not sure if the former even lived, but at least Sansa was at court and could be returned to her mother. Brienne could bring her home, fulfill her knightly quest, and maybe even retire from this Gods forsaken war with her honor intact. Though hopefully she would know well enough to keep quiet about the Stark men they had killed along the way. Men disappeared in war all the time, and rescue of his sister or not, Robb Stark was unlikely to appreciate such sacrifices. He of the Green Fork, who sacrificed how many men again?

Jaime sighed and slowly dressed himself. There was no doubt in his mind that his father knew he was back in the city by now. It was best not to keep the Old Lion waiting. Especially since he, as Hand of the King, would be the one giving the orders to free Brienne, and yes, Sansa as well. Jaime figured he’d bring up the Lady of Tarth first. It was probably going to be the easier case to sell. Bread and salt first, then wine and meats, as the saying went.

There was also Tyrion. _Gods_. Captured again! It seemed all they’d done was trade places, one after another after another. Could they go even a month without one of them being a prisoner? Stannis was unlikely to ransom him, either. They’d need to come up with a plan to rescue him.

Climbing the Tower of the Hand, he also thought back on Cersei. Before even a shave and a bath he had come to see her in the Red Keep. They had made love, albeit quickly and awkwardly, but he couldn’t help recalling how she recoiled from the sight of his lost hand. More than the feel of her, more than her voice, which had been harsher than he remembered, more than anything that look on her face kept returning to him when he closed his eyes: the disgust and… disappointment. Didn’t she realize how much he had gone through to return to her? Not to return to the city or the King, but to HER?

 _Time_. They just needed more time. To talk. To remember. To feel. But above all else to talk.

Cersei had promised to talk more with him of many things later. They would work it out then, all of it. Jaime was sure of it. Besides, it made sense that she would be disgusted with him coming right to her, filthy and ragged and stinking of the road and the woods. This was _Cersei_ , after all. She never really enjoyed it when he came to her sweaty from the yard, so why would this be different? He had thought it romantic at the time, the wounded knight returning to his one true love, weary and tired from a long journey… well, perhaps it had been foolish. Everything would work out once he was clean and properly dressed. She might still stare at the lost hand, but it would be forgotten in time. She would see he was still Jaime, still her Jaime, still the man she loved.

Before that, however… there was father to deal with.

His father was not alone, unfortunately, but in conference with Lords Tyrell, Redwyne and Rowan. Reachlords all, but the good ones, _of course_ , nothing at all like the ones who tried to take the city. Jaime had gotten the story on the way to the castle and from Cersei. Baelish had brokered a marriage alliance with the Tyrells and by the luck or fortune of the Gods they had met up with his father heading south. Together they swept down both sides of the Blackwater and put ‘King’ Stannis to flight. It was a glorious victory, won at literally the eleventh hour.

Some of the small council were present as well, to his further chagrin: Baelish, Pycelle, Cersei, Varys, Uncle Kevan and the High Septon. Cersei brightened for a moment at seeing him, he noticed, but then turned away. Pycelle puttered and fussed and approached him, muttering about his health. Varys stood off to the side, seemingly lost in thought but no doubt keenly aware of all the conversations around him. Baelish was looking out the window, or perhaps at his own reflection in it. The High Septon hung close to the lords of the realm, like one of those tiny fish that swam alongside a shark, and at the center of the lords was Tywin Lannister himself.

He wore the chain of the Hand of the King over a blood-red and burgundy velvet tunic with embroidered thread-of-gold. Jaime actually recognized the attire; it was one of his father’s favorites. As he entered, Tywin saw him, and approached.

“Good of you to join us,” he said, and Jaime saw his eyes dart only briefly to his son’s stump of a hand. “Come with me,” he ordered, for it was not a request.

“A Lord Commander of the Kingsguard _would_ fit in with this little party,” Jaime quipped. “Or is this an _actual_ council meeting? I haven’t seen the King at all today and these are not the usual chambers.”

“The King is resting from his great exertions defending the city,” Tywin explained, and Jaime saw a few people present glance around to gauge one another’s reactions.

Yes. Jaime had heard of that, too. Such great exertions: running from the walls, firing men from a trebuchet, and then retiring to the keep. Then again, if King Joffrey had stood the walls then he’d probably be dead now, so maybe there was some wisdom in cowardice. If he had retreated at the Wailing Wood instead of… _being himself_ … well, the months that followed could’ve gone very differently. There was little point dwelling on it, though.

Jaime sat at the right hand of his father, opposite Uncle Kevan, and Cersei to his other side. The rest took seats as they found them or as they liked them. Varys, Pycelle and the High Septon were all familiar enough. Mace Tyrell was a man Jaime had not seen in a long time, but he looked much the same as remembered: a heavy-set man though not as fat as many a lord, hale looking and with a face made for cheer, sporting a fine beard of autumn brown and salty white. Paxter Redwyne was lord of the Arbor, both Mace’s cousin and good-brother, a narrow reed of a man with a bald crown and impressive orange beard. Mathis Rowan was a stout fellow, Lord of Goldengrove, with a smooth jaw and salt and pepper hair; Jaime couldn’t recall meeting him before.

“Good of you to join us, Ser Jaime,” Mace Tyrell said with some cheer.

“The Gods favor your safe return,” the High Septon stammered. He was a frail old man and could seldom get a sentence in without stumbling.

“The Gods, Catelyn Stark and Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime explained, resting his remaining hand on the table in front of him. “The last of which I hope to see free by tonight, for her leal service. A Lannister must pay his debts, after all.”

“Quite so,” Tywin agreed, but he didn’t sound happy about being maneuvered into doing so.

“Speaking of debts,” Cersei began to say, “Lord Mace and I have some ideas about the Joffrey’s wedding; we will make it the most grand--”

“After,” Tywin snapped. “The war comes first. Varys.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” the perfumed eunuch answered with a demure incline of his bald head. “The Fleet of the would-be usurper, Stannis Baratheon, has been seen off Massey’s Hook. It remains in good order, though smaller than last sighted. The island houses remain loyal to him, but many and more are seeing the futility of his cause and are marshaling their forces to return to King Joffrey’s good graces. I believe they only wait to be sure they will not be attacked by their former allies.”

“Good news, then?” Mace asked, arms crossed over his broad chest. “We have them on the run.”

“Stannis is beaten on land, but still has a hold on the Royal Fleet,” Paxter noted. “The way things are now, there’s no way we can take Dragonstone, or even the lesser isles like Driftmark. Worse, with those ships the man can blockade Kings Landing, Duskendale, even Saltpans and the mouth of the Trident. It will make moving troops more difficult.”

“Surely the renowned fleet of the Arbor could brush aside the man’s corsairs and sellsails?” Cersei asked, all sweetness and flattery.

“We would need to circle half of Westeros… and leave the Arbor vulnerable to the Ironborn,” Lord Redwyne replied with a shake of his head. “Nor are all the Ironborn up north, stealing rocks and trees. They prowl all along the coast, waiting for any sign of weakness.”

“Bloody pirates,” Mathis Rowan snarled, not mincing words. “What does that fool, Balon, expect to accomplish in all this?”

“He has proclaimed himself the King of the Isles and the North,” Tywin said, and there was a collective rolling of eyes at the man who imagined himself as Harwyn Hardhand come again. “He offered terms only recently.”

“Terms?” Cersei hissed. “He should be coming here on bent knee, not offering terms. The man has no right to call himself a King.”

“ _King_ Balon,” and Tywin said it with a hint of mocking inflection, “has his fingers tight around the Neck. Winterfell has fallen, and the two younger Stark boys are missing, almost certainly dead. The entire western shore of the North is in his power and the Northmen themselves seem divided and unable to reclaim their lands. Sufficiently provoked, the man may turn his longships south and cause us no end of trouble.”

“We have need of a navy, but…” Rowan balked.

“At what price?” Redwyne asked. “What does he want from us? What will buy us an alliance?”

“Everything north of the Neck,” Tywin answered them. “And recognition as King.”

“So, to prevent the Seven Kingdoms from fracturing, we fracture it?” Rowan summarized with a scoff.

“Unacceptable,” Cersei added her two coppers.

“What is even _in_ the north that he desires so badly?” Redwyne wondered aloud. “Snow?”

“Wood?” Mace guessed, taking the rhetorical too seriously.

“Revenge,” Tywin answered.

“Let him have both, then, for what good it will do him,” Mace argued back. “Let King Balon finish off the northmen while we deal with the real threat: Stannis.”

Tywin gave no hint of his final thoughts on the matter, not even to those he called family. “There is also the matter of the Vale. They have a fleet as well, in Gulltown.”

“Catelyn Stark’s sister and Hoster Tully’s daughter, yet she has not roused herself from the Eyrie,” Mace Tyrell mused. “But what do you expect from a woman? Battle is not their place and they know it. Yet… for all that, she has done us neither harm nor good. I believe we can leave her be until the realm as a whole is put to rights.”

“I agree,” Redwyne said, “She has committed no great treason.” He smirked and looked around him. “Not by the standards of the time, anyway.”

“She _did_ nearly kill my brother, Tyrion,” Jaime interrupted their blanket dismissals of the Lady of the Eyrie. “We all know the tale. I have heard it, as well. You do know my brother? The same Tyrion who held the walls of this city long enough for you all to arrive and save the day?”

“It has not been forgotten,” Tywin stated, and there was a short and uncomfortable silence. “However, Lord Petyr claims to have the key to the Eyrie, and we would be remiss to dismiss such a possibility.”

“Oh, I have the key, I swear it,” Baelish explained with a sly grin. “It dangles even now between my legs!” The men in the room chuckled at that, but Jaime saw a disgusted grimace briefly flash across Cersei’s face. The joke didn’t seem quite as effective on the lone lady in the room. “My lords… give me leave to travel to the Vale and win over Lysa Arryn. Once I am her consort, a task that should hardly take too much time or effort, I shall deliver to you the Vale of Arryn… their famed knights _and_ their fine fleet.”

Rowan and Cersei both seemed doubtful, but Jaime wasn’t personally surprised by the proposal. In his time as Kingsguard he had observed Jon Arryn’s wife many a time, and there was no love there to hold her to his memory. He had also seen the way she stared at the Master of Coin. Baelish would also not be so confident of his claim were he not entirely certain of pulling it off.

What changed was that Baelish was now officially the Lord of Harrenhal. He had the standing now among high lords to woo a lady like Lysa Arryn. Gods know many in the Vale would chafe at it, though. Jaime wondered just how Littlefinger would deal with that and with them.

“Lord Robert is only a boy,” Baelish said, the tail end of an answer to Lord Rowan. “I will see that he grows up to become King Joffrey’s loyal servant and fast friend.”

“Let us see what he can do, then,” Kevan suggested, but turned to his brother.

“If Lysa Arryn takes you for husband and returns the wayward Vale to the king’s peace then we can confirm Lord Robert as Warden of the East as was always his due,” Tywin made the real decision for them all. “How soon can you leave?”

“On the morrow.” Baelish bowed his head, playing the part of the humble servant. “I have a ship already prepared and ready for the trip, the _Merling King_. She is a Braavosi galley, but swift. I can be in the Eyrie within the month.”

They all wished Lord Baelish luck and safety on his journey.

Jaime privately wouldn’t have minded if he fell overboard and drowned.

“We were discussing the Ironborn before,” Paxter Redwyne said, once that business was settled. “While I hate to admit it, an alliance may have some merit. With even part of the Iron Fleet to augment my own, we could put Stannis’ ships to flight, corsairs and all. There would be ample ships to assault Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle and all the reluctant lords of the Narrow Sea. With an alliance, we would also have less worry of a stab in the back.”

“You’d trust a Greyjoy’s word of honor to watch your back, then?” Jaime asked with a bemused smile. “Trust him to point that knife of his somewhere else?”

Redwyne coughed into his fist and had the grace to seem chastened. “Quellon Greyjoy was an… honorable enough man.”

“A shame then, that some sons do not take after their fathers.”

“We will consider the proposal, Lord Paxter.” Tywin stepped in before they could argue more. “However, we should all be loath to sign away half of the Seven Kingdoms for so little gain. Balon Greyjoy already fights the Starks and I dare say it occupies most of his time and energy. Why reward him for a task he is already committed to seeing through? What extra ships we need, the Vale can provide. Any additional shortfall can be made up in other ways.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Redwyne agreed, deferring to the Lannister patriarch.

“There was also the matter of… well…” Mace Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There have been rumors… about the Westerlands.”

Varys also seemed uncomfortable and lowered his eyes to the table. “My little birds have heard the same as the maesters’ ravens. Casterly Rock has fallen.”

Jaime actually reached up to clear the wax from his right ear. He couldn’t have heard that true. Casterly Rock? Fallen? No. There had to be a mistake. _It was impossible._ The seat of the Lannisters was _impenetrable_. The walls of the Rock were made of _actual rock_ , carved, not built, and were thicker than any castle wall or turret. The gates were great and strong. In all the world, only the legendary Five Forts of the east could match Casterly Rock. How - _how could any man take The Rock by force?_

Robb Stark was apparently the answer. He had somehow taken the docks and worked his way up.

“…details are somewhat scarce,” Varys said with apparent remorse. “There are rumors of giants and shapechangers fighting alongside the northmen. We can take some solace in the fact that Lannisport itself was by and large saved from their wrath. My little birds tell me it surrendered without a fight and the northmen did not see fit to enter it or cause the people harm.”

“But Casterly Rock…?” Jaime asked again.

“Last I heard, a Stark garrison holds it,” Varys answered, holding a delicate tissue to his lips. “How large, I do not know, but it would surely be several hundred strong. Much of the Stark host has already left the area, along with their stolen ships and impressed crews. For what it is worth, they have also stripped the countryside near-barren of cattle and other livestock.”

“So… it is all true,” Mace Tyrell said quietly. He blinked as if in shock and rested his hands on the table, as if for support. “What – what does this mean for us, then?”

 _‘For you_ ,’ he really meant to say, Jaime knew. But the flower wouldn’t dare be so blunt with the lion.

“I’ve been to Casterly Rock,” Paxter Redwyne said to his good-brother. “It could not have been taken by force. Perhaps they had someone on the inside?”

“I refuse to believe it,” Cersei snapped, suddenly. “It is a lie, spread by clever men. A lie. That is all. Our home could **not** be in the hands of those… those _savages!_ ”

“You deceive yourself,” their father finally spoke, with a murderously cold tone. Jaime studied his father, and he could all but sense the seething rage building within him behind the icy façade. His right hand was clenched to tightly, the knuckles were turning white. Yet his other hand was flat and seemingly undisturbed.

“A letter from Lady Genna arrived just this morning, from one of the Rock’s own ravens,” Tywin said, with supreme self-control.

“The, _mm_ , source of a raven is easy to identify,” Pycelle chimed in to support the Hand. “It was undoubtably a raven from Casterly Rock. After years of correspondence, I know Maester Creylen’s penmanship quite well.”

“While the loss of Casterly Rock is unfortunate and unprecedented, it does not change our situation overmuch,” Lord Tywin continued. “We have ample finances to continue the war, especially with the generous assistance of Highgarden. The northmen cannot magic away the unmined gold under the Rock. When we regain control of it, _debts will be paid_.”

 _Gods, what debts they would be_.

“Highgarden shall help share the burden, of course,” Mace Tyrell generously replied, trying to give the room another jovial smile but not quite managing it. “Our Margaery is to be Queen. How can we not?”

That was the price to be paid, all knew.

Were Mace Tyrell’s sweet rose of a daughter _not_ to be Queen…

“I didn’t know about the ships,” Paxter Redwyne admitted, cupping his chin and stroking his generous orange beard. “You say the Starks have taken them and spared Lannisport? Holding it hostage, more like. But I wonder what they’ll do with them?”

“Why does anyone on that coast have ships?” Rowan remarked. “To kill Ironborn.”

“Can your fleet… your former fleet,” Paxter amended, “Can it overcome Balon’s Iron Fleet?”

“I had planned for it to do just that,” Tywin answered with an eerie calm. After Balon’s Rebellion and the burning of the previous fleet in port, great sums of gold had been spent to try and restore it to former glory, Jaime knew. His father would not suffer otherwise. Yet it was also intended to be a force kept close to port, to patrol the waters of the West and protect Lannisport and Faircastle. What defenses would those places have now, when the Starks took the fleet?

“If Robb Stark is occupied with the krakens, then this may be our chance to strike,” Mace mused, but also seemed to dislike the idea. “But Stannis remains just out in the bay, waiting. Our hold on the throne will never be secure, not while he lives; Kings Landing itself will never be safe.”

Jaime could tell they were more worried than they let on.

The loss of Casterly Rock was more than just the loss of the fleet and the incomes of Lannisport. It was more than the loss of their gold stored there, and the centuries of history accumulated in its halls and vaults. Jaime closed his eyes and mourned his old home, the halls he had grown up in and ran down, the rooms he had hidden in and played in, and the courtyards and practice fields where he had learned to fight and be a man. The loss of Casterly Rock was the loss of their aura of invincibility. It was the loss of the unspoken promise that they could, if they had to, fall back to the safety of The Rock and rebuild from any defeat or setback. It was a loss of prestige and honor.

All that had to be weighing on Tywin Lannister, but he buried it all, at least for the time being.

And on top of all that, there was Tyrion…

“I worry about the morale of your westermen, if all this is true,” Rowan said, bluntly, as seemed to be his preference, even when facing the wounded Lion of Lannister. “Can they still be relied upon?”

“They will fight to protect their homes and their rightful king,” Kevan answered him on his brother’s behalf. “They will fight to avenge Casterly Rock and regain their honor. You needn’t worry about that, my Lord.”

Rowan grumbled but nodded. “Very well.”

Baelish sat quietly, looking very much like he wanted to crack a joke and had to constantly fight to keep from fitting himself for a hangman’s noose. The High Septon merely looked uncomfortable and out of his element. He’d come mostly to offer blessings for whatever others decided and to say a few words about the wedding plans.

“In light of this, it could be wise to be more frugal with our spending,” Paxter said softly, as if unhappy to be the bearer of bad news, or in this case common sense.

“No!” Cersei shot him down fast as a whip. “We cannot appear weak! And this is still a royal wedding!”

“For once, I agree,” Tywin said. “The spectacle of the event cannot be underestimated. I’m certain Highgarden will help with this.”

Mace grimaced but nodded eagerly. “We will bring the glory of the Reach itself to Kings Landing. It will be a wedding for the ages, I promise you!”

“The King will be most pleased to hear it,” Tywin thanked him in a roundabout way. “Since we have already come to the topic, let us iron out the details now. The wedding and the spoils of our victory.”

Oh, what a wedding they had planned.

Seventy-seven courses, troupes of mummers and actors, flowers enough to make even Kings Landing smell sweet for a few days. Even the High Septon got into it, talking with a weak voice about the preparations being made at the Great Sept of Baelor. A thousand guests would attend the feast itself, with two times the number waiting outside. Pavilions of silk were being imported in all the colors of the rainbow (Jaime guessed these were probably recycled from Renly’s short-lived court).

The only bone of contention was the arrival of three hundred dornish as guests. Mace Tyrell still held a grudge with the Red Viper over the wounding of his son and heir, Willas. Above and beyond that, the Reach and Dorne did not have a pleasant history as neighbors.

Yet Tywin was glad for their appearance. He hoped Doran, or possibly a relation, would take a seat on the small council after their Prince bowed to King Joffrey. He also spoke of giving the Martells “justice” for the murder of Elia and her children, though offered no details on what that would entail. None dared to question the Old Lion’s own role in the deed. Mace and Paxter seemed simply not to care either way, but Rowan’s plain features betrayed him. Still, he held his tongue when it came to this one thing.

“When the king is wed to our Margaery and Prince Trystane to our Mrycella, we shall all be one family, one Great House,” Uncle Kevan implored them to see the bigger picture. “Lannister, Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell. Let us put aside past grievances.”

Tywin soon turned the conversation away from the prickly dornish and back to the spoils of war. They had in mind quite a lot of redrawing of realm maps, though most of it was minor. Varys had a master list of all the approved requests. Rivers, forests, villages, mills, holdfasts… the war had left orphans and vacant castles aplenty, just waiting to be plucked like ripe fruit from the hanging boughs of a tree. For their part, the Tyrells would reap the realms of the treacherous Florents. Brightwater Keep and all attendant lands would be given to Mace’s second son, Garlan, a hero of the Battle of the Blackwater and a puissant knight. Jaime knew of him by reputation. He was one of the few men Jaime would have relished facing on the field… not so much now, with the missing hand, but before. Before all… _this_.

“Are there any other reports of note?” Tywin asked, when it was all settled. He turned to Varys.

The eunuch bowed obsequiously. “Only a few other matters. Tyrosh and Lys continue to skirmish, and both look to court Myr to their side. Also,” Varys added with a bit of flourish, “I hear rumors of a three-headed dragon in Qarth. It is said to be a wonder, and many have beheld it.”

“Mummery. No different than this foolishness with giants,” Tywin declared, growing not so much angry as impatient. “Put a tall man in stilts and frighten the smallfolk into telling tall tales. The dragons are dead and Qarth may as well be on the moon. I meant real _actionable_ reports.”

“There are messages from The Wall of wildings and a new King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“Good. Let them soften up the north,” Tywin growled, and his impatience was quite clear. The last manner of business was with regards to the men who fled the battle. Varys suggested the Night’s Watch. Cersei suggested the headman’s axe. Tywin rejected both options in favor of breaking the men’s legs as an example.

“If we are finished, then, I would have words with my children,” Tywin said, standing and dismissing them. “Kevan. You shall stay as well.”

“Of course,” their uncle said, bowing his head. He turned quickly to the other lords. “Thank you all for your leal service and honest council. The king is most grateful to have you as his side, and soon, to count you as family.”

The kind words pleased the other men, who paused only to bid farewell or shake a hand. Mace and Rowan both took a moment to again congratulate Jaime on his return and to wish him well. Soon the chamber was empty, but for Lannisters. Tywin let them stew and wait for a moment while he turned, walked over to a pitcher of water, and poured himself a glass. He returned only at his leisure to stare at them all with cold, hard eyes.

“Our family is at a turning point,” he said, at last, addressing them all. “The loss of The Rock is a _Gods damned catastrophe_. I want you all to understand that, as of this moment, we either survive or we die. There can be no half-measures. The legacy of ten thousand years is on your shoulders… and mine. We will either eat or be eaten. Do all of you understand?”

 _All of you_. By which he meant ‘ _my two children specifically._ ’ Not good Uncle Kev.

“We will recapture The Rock,” Cersei insisted. “You said it yourself.”

“We _will_ retake it,” her father agreed. “Eventually. But it will require all of you to do your duty. For this House. For this family. You must be willing to put it all before your own selfish desires. I _know_ the both of you. I know you chafe at this lesson. You _always have_.”

The two twins exchanged a quick look but nodded as one. This was a speech they had heard before, and they knew the dance routine. Tywin bared his teeth and sighed, taking a long drink of water.

“Sansa Stark,” he said, simply.

“What of her?” Cersei immediately asked.

“Littlefinger has given me word of a plot,” Tywin explained, slowly, for her benefit. “Apparently, the Tyrells have plans to secret her out of Kings Landing and marry her to Highgarden’s heir, Willas.”

Cersei’s face contorted into something ugly and cruel. “No. **No!** I won’t allow it! She’s _my_ hostage!”

“Unless you failed to notice, we are not in a position to deny the Tyrells,” Tywin continued to explain, this time with growing annoyance. “To refuse a request to have Sansa ‘visit’ Highgarden would be to insult him and imply we do not trust him.”

“I _don’t_ trust him,” Cersei snapped.

Tywin took another drink, probably to keep from _completely_ losing his temper.

“We cannot see the Rose and the Direwolf in bed,” he said, and turned to Jaime. “You understand why, don’t you, Jaime? Both why and how we can deal with this matter?”

Put in the center-stage, he shifted uneasily on his feet. “I… suppose… a marriage?”

“Yes. A marriage,” Tywin repeated, as if they were children again and he was teaching them a lesson in his solar back at The Rock. “The first…” He faced Cersei and locked eyes with her. “Will be yours.”

Comprehension dawned on her, her eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “No. No,” she repeated, holding up her hands. “Not again. Father. **Not again**.”

“Your Grace,” Kevan pleaded, the gentle uncle against the unfeeling father. “You are still a young woman and fertile. You cannot wish to spend the rest of your life as a widow, alone?”

“There is also the matter of the incest,” Tywin stated without emotion. “Stannis’ slander will likely outlive the man himself. We must put it to rest. The best way to do this is to have more children by a new husband.”

“Is three children not enough?” Cersei hissed at them both. “Have I not done my duty already? I am a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Not a brood mare!”

“You are my daughter and you will do as I command,” Tywin told her, hard and unmoving.

Cersei sniffed defiantly, looked to Jaime for support, and failing to see it, turned to leave. Her silks were still swishing about her ankles when her father added:

“Leave, and you will have no say as to who you marry. That choice, and only that choice, is yours.”

And just like that, she froze.

Jaime wanted to reach out to her, but his body couldn’t move. He already had an inkling where this was headed for both of them. At the same time, the thought of another man with her… with Cersei… it made his blood boil. But there was no point defying father like this, here and now. There were other ways. Outright defiance rarely worked.

“I will not marry again,” Cersei said, very quietly, and then raised her voice to declare, “I _cannot_ marry again.”

“You can and will,” Tywin corrected her. “All our most important allies are married to women likely to outlive them: Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, Randyll Tarly, Leyton Hightower, Doran Martell… though his wife is estranged… there is naught we can do about them. I have considered Balon Greyjoy. His wife is elderly and said to be ailing and even rather mad. You could cement the alliance there… it is a possibility.”

“Balon Greyjoy?” Cersei repeated, gob-smacked. “No. No. no no **NO!** ”

“That would be the reaction of most women to Balon Greyjoy, I think,” Kevan dryly observed.

Even Tywin nodded in agreement. “Oberyn Martell is another one to consider. We do need to bind up the Dornish. Mace will object, of course.”

“Oberyn hates us,” Jaime saw fit to jump in at that. “The man has a half-dozen bastards at least and is notorious for his love of poisons. You may as well marry my sister to an _actual_ red viper. At least you can placate those with mice.”

Cersei looked to him in that moment with thanks, but it was a fleeting moment soon lost.

“The Redwyne twins and Quentyn Martell are less attractive but more realistic options,” Tywin continued, pausing only to take another sip of water. “Theon Greyjoy could work, but the fool may be dead or hiding in the northern forests somewhere, no one knows for sure. The North is in chaos at the moment. One of the Tyrells would be ideal, but Ser Loras has taken the white and Ser Garlan is married to a Fossoway. That does leave Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden. The very same boy they plan to wed to Sansa Stark.”

Cersei was just shaking her head.

“He would be my choice,” Tywin concluded. “They say he is mild-mannered, intelligent, courtly and cultured, and most importantly, heir to an immensely valuable seat. I had hoped to use the promise of gold and a fine dowry to make it happen…” He frowned and sighed. “You may speak now, Cersei. Which of them do you prefer?”

“It is such a difficult choice you put before me,” she answered, and put on a show of thinking about it. “A crippled man or an old grey squid, a murderous boy lover or a pair of brats? How can a lady pick just one?”

Tywin stared at her, unamused. “Very droll.”

“May I have a few days to consider it?”

He nodded, and off she went, with as much dignity as she could muster. Jaime felt for her, but they would manage something after the meeting with father, not during it. He was certain of it. In most other circumstances, he’d probably have just reasoned her future husband would have a terrible accident of some sort, but… even he could see these were tough times for House Lannister. Killing allies would be counter-productive. Well, killing allies was _always_ rather counter-productive… but they didn’t have the breathing room they had before.

“Jaime,” father at last turned to son. “Can you still wield a sword?”

“The Seven saw fit to give me two hands,” he quipped with a smile. “Just don’t ask if I can use a shield, too.”

Tywin grunted, satisfied enough by the answer. “Nonetheless, you cannot serve in the Kingsguard as you are now. I will--”

“A Kingsguard serves for life,” Jaime interrupted, and checked his pulse with his remaining hand, fingers at his neck. “Ah. What’s this? I’m still alive? Well, that answers that. I think we should both be quite relieved.”

Tywin did not look amused. “Mayhaps you should tell that to Ser Barristan. Remind me again, how you can be Lord Commander while he still lives?”

_Damn. That was a good point._

“If he still lives,” Jaime countered.

“You continue to persist with this,” Tywin said, and turned briefly to Kevan.

“Jaime,” Kevan said, again playing the compassionate and understanding uncle, and in his defense, he usually _was_ when compared to his older brother. Not that he could hold a candle to long-gone Uncle Gerion. “You have to understand how few options we have right now. You _have_ to understand how close we are to the edge. I would have my boy, Lancel, do this, but he is still injured from the battle and while he could say the words, he could not consummate any marriage anytime soon. And the marriage _must be_ consummated as soon as possible to forestall any annulment. I would offer one of my twins, but Martyn and Willem are both held captive in Riverrun.”

“The same goes for Genna and her sons, Freys though they are.” Tywin paced anxiously about the room now, back and forth as he spoke. “Tion was captured alongside you at the Whispering Wood. Walder is just a boy… and he, your Aunt Genna, and her Frey husband were all taken when Casterly Rock fell. I could have Tyrek annul his marriage, but he has been missing since that _damned riot_. Even my grand-uncle Jason’s descendants are no longer a possibility. Our options have diminished bit by bit almost to nothing! I never could’ve imagined...” He trailed off, took a deep breath, and continued, “It must be a Lannister and at present we are left with but two alternatives.”

“Two?” Jaime asked, honestly perplexed. “I know you want me to quit my cloak and marry the poor girl, and that you’re building this up to guilt me into doing it, but what other Lannister is there? Tyrion has quite the way with women, I agree, but I doubt he could consummate a marriage from all the way on Dragonstone.”

Tywin stared at him flatly.

Jaime was on the verge of asking again, when he understood. “No. Father… you wouldn’t.”

But he was Tywin Lannister. _Of course he would_.

“You could do far worse than Sansa Stark. She is young, nubile, obedient and still a maid, one of highest birth. Like your sister, you may think on it,” Tywin generously allowed. He turned his back and waved a dismissive hand. “But don’t think on it too long. We must seize every opportunity we can, if we wish to reclaim what is ours.”

“Think about what’s good for the family.” Uncle Kevan stood by the door, holding it open. “I’ll come find you soon.”

Jaime frowned at his uncle and glared briefly back at his father.

“I will think on it,” he promised, and left.

Alone, outside the chambers of the Hand of the King, Jaime ran his only remaining hand down his clean-shaven face. _Gods_. This was _not_ the homecoming he had expected. Just how in the Seven Hells was he going to salvage this mess? And then there was still the matter of Brienne. How could he even face her again, after all this? For the first time since leaving Riverrun, Jaime Lannister felt well and truly alone.

. . .

 

 

 

 

 

. . .

(12) Eryk, the Flayed Man

. . .

“Damn you Bolton bastards! The Gods spit on you! The Gods--”

The curses turned to a muffled grunt when Lorik struck the Cerwyn boy again, sending him sprawling to the floor. Eryk paid it only a passing mind as he cut the skin from his apple. He was a Bolton man, through and through, but apples were about the only things he really cared to personally skin. Even animals left him feeling disgusted. It was small wonder he’d left the tannery business to his younger brother. Hard to devote yourself to a job that makes you want to lose your breakfast every morning.

Satisfied with his suitably peeled apple and ignoring both the sounds of a man being beaten and a woman screaming, Eryk planted himself down on a comfortable tree stump and took a bite of his prize. Pheasant's Apples had an intense tangy flavor and dense flesh, but not as much juice. It was a good apple for preserving or eating raw or keeping in slices.

“Oy,” Eryk said between bites. “Robby! You best not be killing that wench in there! Not fair to the other lads if you kill her. Remember what you promised, now.”

“I remember!” came the response from inside the small brick and thatch house. “You think I got no self-control, that it?”

“No, but I’m hearin’ a lot of screamin’ in there,” Eryk yelled back. “I don’t want the next lad to come out saying it’s a bloody mess in there and he can’t do his business. Just be considerate ‘o the next man. Don’t be doin’ ta others what you wouldn’t want them ta’ do fer you.”

“I know! I know! Get off me ass.”

“Just fuckin’ courtesy, man. Common courtesy.” Eryk took another bite of his apple and savored the taste as it rolled around his mouth and over his tongue. “We learn these things as children, ya know, but then people forget when we grow older.” He learned to the right and flicked a peel off to his knife. “Why is that?”

On the ground, the Cerwyn boy grunted when Lorik kicked him square in the groin.

Eryk shook his head. The fool of a boy plus a few other Cerwyn survivors had tried hiding in this village. Who knew who they had spoken to or what they had said about the little business in Winterfell? Couldn’t have that. Ramsay’s orders were right clear: scour the area, make sure the fleeing men kept fleeing and never looked back, dead men tell no tales, and so on. _Make it look like the ironborn did it_. The bastard lordling was going to go with that as his only alibi… blame it _all_ on the ironborn, at least for as long as possible.

“By the Gods, Robby!” a man yelled. “Look at this! The hells wrong with you? You slashed up one of her tits!”

“What? What’s wrong? You call that slashed up?”

“They ain’t supposed to be cut up at all, so yeah, I’d call it slashed up!”

“Theys was like that when I got there. Maybe was Nap that did it, not me.”

“For the love of the Gods,” Eryk groaned, and turned around again to yell over his shoulder. “Patrik, how many cuts is there?”

Patrik, a tow-headed lad from the Dreadfort, stuck his head out of the hovel’s doorway. “Three cuts, sir. Longer than ma finger.”

“They deep?”

“One of em. Deep as me thumbnail.”

“That don’t sound too bad. I’m sure you can manage. Robby! We all know you made them cuts. Don’t lie ‘bout it.”

“Fuck me,” Robby emerged, brushing by Patrik as he left the house. He was still lacing up his breeches. “You know I got a certain type. Was her fault fer movin so much. I weren’t _tryin’_ to make a mess!”

“Maybe not, but you made one,” Eryk said, fixing him with a glare. Robby was pug nosed little brute, and no matter how Eryk tried, he never seemed to learn proper manners. “Right. Next time, you go last. That’s your punishment.”

The spearman adjusted the flayed man on his tunic and grumbled but didn’t argue. Rules were rules. Rules was what kept men from being beasts. Eryk made sure all his men understood that. Sighing, he went back to munching on his apple and took a moment to look around to make sure everything else was in order.

Two men were gathering up the chickens and other small animals on the farm. They couldn’t stay and totally loot the place. They had to keep moving and keep patrolling in ever wider circles. The chickens and eggs and a few other things wouldn’t slow them down, though. The farmhouse was nestled in a nice, quiet little valley near Winterfell, with some delicious apple trees. Eryk made sure nothing happened to the trees. They’d burn the house and the rest when they were done. That would make it look like the ironborn had been in the area and done what ironborn do.

“You damn… bastards… traitors…”

“Aye, we betrayed ya.” Eryk agreed and gestured for Lorik to drag the boy over. Which he did, lifting the would-be knight up by his mail shirt, blazoned with the axe of castle Cerwyn. “Sorry ‘bout that. You want a piece of apple? It’s quite good.”

“Only thing I want is to see you lot die,” the Cerwyn boy spat.

“That’s too bad.” Eryk muttered, cutting a slice and nibbling at it. “We’re gonna burn you lot once we’re done here. You know that, right? Gonna lock you in that house there and light it up.”

The Cerwyn lad glowered but said nothing.

“Gonna leave you with yer armor at least. Make it look like the ironborn did it in a fight,” Eryk explained, and casually pointed a knife at the young man. “ _But_. I tell you what. If you give us an idea of where anyone else might be hiding nearby, I’ll personally kill you before we do the fire thing. It’ll be nice and painless, swear on me mum.”

The boy’s response was to spit in Eryk’s face, not that it hit. He was too far away. Still.

“Now, that ain’t right. Spittin’ at a man?” Eryk shook his head sadly. “Where’s yer manners? Didn’t yer mum teach you manners?”

“You want me to cut off his balls?” Lorik asked eagerly, drawing a knife from his belt and kicking the boy to the ground. _Butcher’s boy_. Give him a sharp object and he always feels the need to use it.

“No need,” Eryk replied without worry. “We’ll already be burnin’ these lot alive. Sides, if I was in this boy’s place, I like to think I’d act the same way. Probably not though.” He smiled in good humor and picked a bit of apple from his teeth. “It hardly matters if they burn with their balls or without them. And they might change their mind once the torches come out.”

Lorik grumbled but put away his knife. “If’n you say so, serjeant ser.”

“Just keep an eye on these lot and relax while you can. Soon we’ll be riding again.”

Not that everyone had such a leisurely approach to life, Eryk knew. All the lads were excited about hunting for hidden goodies around the farm, or stuffing their faces, or looking for things to steal, or raping the girl inside or her mum. More the former than the latter, resulting in a line and a need to draw lots to fairly determine who goes when. None of them had been blooded before. They were all too young to have fought in Robert’s War. All except him. Not that these green boys would’ve enjoyed that war: far too much actual fighting, far from home, and not enough raping for this lot. Kind of sad, the quality of men raised by the Dreadfort this generation. Maybe it said something about the times.

Well, it didn’t matter.

What _mattered_ was finishing up here and then finding the next little batch of stragglers. There had been some Tallhart boys before this, and that had taken far too long. This was the first Cerwyn group they’d encountered, and they’d fought hard despite being exhausted from running. Only three of them were left now: the boy and two older men, all armored like knights. They’d have made a good ransom, maybe, if Ramsay were willing to ransom anyone which he wasn’t. Instead, Eryk had hoped they might have some information. Probably not.

They shouldn’t have stopped at this little farm to try and rest and grab a bite to eat. Eryk could understand the temptation. They must’ve been tired and needing shelter. But the farmhouse was also a target and they had to know they were being chased. It would’ve been smarter to hide in the woods somewhere.

“Delicious,” Eryk declared, tossing the apple core away. Sighing, he stood up off the tree stump and brushed off his breeches. He glanced back at the house. “Two more lads and we should be done with the misses inside. More than enough time to take a piss.”

“Excuse me,” he added, to the prisoners and Lorik. “Keep an eye on them.” He whistled. “You, too, Kit.”

“Aye,” Kit heard him.

Whistling a little tune with no particular rhyme or rhythm, he walked around the farmhouse to a nice shady spot out of sight to do his business. While he passed water, he thought. A farm like this would be nice to have some day. Of course, he’d have apple trees, but also maybe some turnips and sweet onions. The farm life had a certain appeal. Of course, the downside of it was when something like this happened, and a group of men came to your farm and ruined everything: burn your house, steal your crops, rape your wife and daughter. Harder to defend a farm than a shop or a tannery…

The faint crunch of brushing bushes prompted the Bolton man to turn and peer into the trees. There was something there. A wolf, maybe? He could just make out what looked like a silvery grey tail. Too big to be a stray or a farm dog.

“Oy! Oy, lads!” Eryk yelled, cutting his business short and quickly typing his laces back up. “Watch the trees! Might be a pack strayed out of the wolfswood!”

Lorik rested one hand on his belt and the other on the pommel of his stolen sword. “I’m pretty sure we can handle a few wolves, serjeant ser.”

“Aye, that’s right.” Kit, a tall red-headed boy from a village near the dreadfort, hefted his spear. “That’s what I got this for! I’ll stick any wolf I see--”

Kit’s head shook, and Eryk barely caught sight of what looked like a bolt or arrow as it damn near took the lad’s head off. He went sprawling, twisting and pinwheeling from the force of the blow as it buried into his ear. Lorik screamed, not too different from the woman’s screams just a few minutes ago. Eryk instinctively covered his head, holding his helmet tight, scrambling for cover.

He heard a sound behind him. Feet. No: paws.

Whatever it was avoided him, jumped, and hit the still screaming Lorik. The former butcher’s boy yelped, sword in hand flailing uselessly – he’d stolen it, but he had no idea how to _use_ it – as the huge wolf from before seized him around the neck and spun him around. Lorik had to weigh a hundred and fifty, maybe hundred and sixty pounds in armor, but this huge silver wolf handled him like he was a hare or a baby lamb, shaking and ripping and breaking the boy’s neck with a wet snap. Lorik’s arms kept flailing and his legs kept spasming, even as the sword fell from his dead fingers.

Lorik’s broken ruin of a neck still in its jaws, the wolf seemed to take a moment to look up at Eryk. Its yellow eyes burned with hatred and malice. Lorik’s dead body pissed itself, filling the air with the pungent stick, and the wolf ground its jaws even tighter into the dead boy’s neck, cracking bone and prompting a torrent of red blood to pool out of its lower jaw and onto the ground.

“Gods,” Eryk cursed, forgetting his own sword in preference for a nearby spear. Only a fool would fight up close with that monster. “To arms! To arms lads! Ambush!”

They came, rallied, from out of the house and around the chicken coop.

It would’ve been enough for just the wolf, Eryk figured, but the wolf was far from alone. From the forest came a cry and a yell, not wolves, but men with wolves on their tabards and surcoats. They were on them in moments, and they took no pains to avoid the giant direwolf in their midst and the wolf ignored them entirely. It let Lorik roll lifelessly out of its mouth and onto the ground and slowly advanced on Eryk alone.

“Easy now,” Eryk warned, leveling his spear. “Stay back.” He dared take only a glance back at the rest of the fight. “Lads? Hold fast now, lads!”

They weren’t.

They were fleeing.

Fleeing and dying; a sad lot.

Eryk watched as Fatfoot Pate tried to run with his pants around his legs. Poor fool had been the second to last to have a go at the girl and must’ve been caught with his pants literally down. He stumbled, fell, lost his helmet, scrambled to get back up with a knife in his hand, and ended up with a spear in his guts that rolled him onto his back. His killer was a man with Manderly colors. Manderly, Stark, at least one Tallhart…

Were the survivors fighting back?

One of the men tried to approach from the side, but Eryk backed off and whipped the tip of the spear in his direction to dissuade him. The wolf growled but didn’t dare a leap. Eryk had survived the Trident behind a spear. He was more worried about his back.

Then, suddenly, the wolf shuffled to the side and a man walked by it… but this was no man wearing the colors of any house in the North that Eryk knew. He looked more Southron, with a fine armored cuirass of polished steel and brass over a steel collar and black hauberk. Large four-lamed pauldrons, each with a riveted stop-rib, protected the shoulders. He wore a fine steel barbute, too, with brass patterning around the cheeks and nose, but behind it was a black mask of metal and silk cut in the form of a serene face, hiding even the eyes. In his right hand, he held a tapering longsword with a ricasso behind a sharp secondary quillon. He seemed more Stormlord than Northman. Eryk distantly recalled a knight from Fellwood back in the Rebellion who seemed similar, though less heavily armored, and not wearing the strange mask.

A sellsword, then? Or a well-to-do hedge knight?

It didn’t matter.

Eryk waited for the right moment and lunged. The man had no shield and his sword guard was down. Silk wouldn’t protect a man’s face from the tip of a good spear.

The knight raised his hand, and Eryk thought him hoping to ward off the strike. Instead, the tip of the Bolton spear connected with the palm of the man’s armored hand. Somehow, it didn’t penetrate and the knight didn’t even grunt in pain. His fingers merely closed around the tip of the spear, enveloping it and holding it fast.

“Well,” Eryk started to let go of the spear. “That’s just--”

And then the wolf was on him, free from worry over the spear between them. Eryk cursed and tried to protect his head and neck, not wanting to end up like poor Lorik. The wolf kindly obliged, aiming for his legs instead and sending him to the ground. To the experienced spearman’s surprise, the wolf also quite carefully used its teeth to bite into and remove the knife Eryk kept in a sheath behind his back. It bit through the leather straps and tossed the knife away like it actually knew what it was.

Maybe instead of killing the Winterfell kennel master, they should’ve brought him back to the Dreadfort. The man was obviously some kind of canine wizard.

“Mercy! I yield!” Eryk yelled to the knight as the wolf savaged his legs and then bit down on his right arm. Even through the chainmail, it threatened to break his arm from the pressure alone. The direwolf snarled and jerked its head, and for a dumbstruck moment, Eryk felt himself actually go airborne. Time seemed to slow as his mind tried to process it all.

Then, too soon, he hit the ground with a pained grunt. His arm was broken. Definitely broken.

By the Old Gods and the New, that wolf… it was like some sort of demon out of the old stories!

“Enough, Summer,” it was a boy’s voice, but the wolf obeyed instantly, backing away from its human prey. “Ser Holtmann. Once again, you have my thanks for the assistance.”

“Ser?” Eryk asked through a haze of pain.

The big knight in black was the next thing Eryk saw, as he was lifted up by the back of his mail like a sack of corn. Everything hurt. His legs were mangled, and his right leg was broken and twisted below the knee. It was a compound fracture, too… he could see the bone breaking the surface through his ripped breeches. His left leg was bloody, but not broken; small comfort, that, crippled was crippled. His right arm was screaming in pain and couldn’t move. At the least, it had been yanked right out of the socket by that monster-wolf.

Blinking, Eryk could see the source of the boy’s voice.

It was a huge man… holding a boy… a boy in Stark livery. This had to be Bran Stark, but wasn’t Bran Stark dead? Bran Stark had brownish-red hair and blue eyes, that was what they had been told, just in case they found any crippled boys with those features. Eryk didn’t know who the big man was, but he wasn’t armed or armored and just wore a simple jacket and peasant’s jerkin.

Flanking the might-be Stark boy were two children, thin and skinny. Crannogmen? Had to be. Reeds. They had to be the Reed siblings. _Fucking hell_. This was the Stark boy, and that was the Stark boy’s bloody wolf!

“Bran?” the question came not from Eryk, but from the beaten Cerwyn boy. He had recovered his sword from Lorik’s corpse and kneeled respectfully. “Bran Stark? Is that truly you?”

“Nice to see you again, Cley,” Bran replied, inclining his head to the boy.

“The Cerwyn heir?” Eryk asked between pained coughs. “Fuck me. Thought you were dead, too?”

“Your bastard-lord Ramsay is fond of telling tall tales,” Cley Cerwyn snarled. He turned back to Bran. “Rickon?”

“Also alive,” Bran answered.

“Thank the Gods,” Cley’s shoulders fell. “But Winterfell… my lord…”

“I know. I saw it.”

“What little I have left, then, I pledge to you.” Cerwyn bowed his head deeply. “You saved my life. We failed to protect Winterfell, but we will not fail to protect you.”

“I know,” Bran said, “Rise, Cley. We’ve been friends for years, and to be honest, losing Winterfell is something that falls on my shoulders, not yours. As you can see, we are trying to gather up as many survivors as we can from the surrounding lands. Do you know where any others are hiding?”

“I do,” Cley replied immediately. “I can help you find them.”

Eryk frowned. So not only was this the Cerwyn heir, but he knew where survivors were as well. That was just perfect. This was just turning into a perfect day. At least the apple had been genuine.

“How many have you gathered so far, my lord?”

“More than a hundred.”

“A good start.”

Eryk closed his eyes and thought of home while the two nobles chatted. The black knight was still holding him by the scruff of his neck like a cat. Maybe he could try and escape, but with one leg broken basically beyond healing, it was pointless. Probably the boys would just keep chatting while the wolf slowly chased him down and finished the job. Not the most dignified way to die.

Opening his eyes, he saw more and more of Bran Stark’s party going over the area. All the Bolton men were being tossed in a pile, like chopped wood. The two women in the house were wailing and some strange woman – looked a little like a woods witch but young and comely – was looking them over, along with an injured man. A healer?

To Eryk’s surprise, there was a wildling, too.

He was a bald man in a striped shadowcat cloak with gold dangles in his beard and a shiny gold ring in each ear. Fine jewelry, but superficial. The man was obviously still just a wildling. His stature was small, but he carried himself proudly and even arrogantly. Eryk watched as he made a motion with his head, and a shadowcat emerged from the trees with a dead man in its teeth. It was Robby, and the flayed man on his breast was as slashed up as the tits of the girl he had raped, less than an hour ago. Three wolves followed the shadowcat in a procession that seemed to fly in the face of nature and the natural cats-and-dogs order of the universe. All of them had bloody muzzles, and Eryk could see that Robby hadn’t just been mauled. All four of the beasts had taken a moment to have a taste of their kill. A long trail of blood led from the edge of the forest to between Robby’s thighs.

‘ _Well, that’s ironic_ ,’ Eryk couldn’t help but think. Then he remembered seeing dogs fight back home. Animals always went for the nether regions first and the soft underbelly. That was nature for you.

“Your name is Eryk, yes?”

“Aye, m’lord?” Eryk replied, trying to preserve his dignity. “That’s me.”

“You’re one of Ramsay Bolton’s dogs?” Bran asked, in the seemingly mute giant’s arms. Cley Cerwyn and the two other battleaxes were hovering nearby, no doubt waiting for their pound of flesh.

“Aye. He actually calls us that as a compliment,” Eryk replied with a pained shrug. “Loves his dogs, that one. As long as they kill for him… and do other things. Things most normal dogs don’t wanna do.”

“You seem awfully calm for a man about to face justice,” Cley chimed in.

“We all die at the end of our road,” Eryk noted, though he did wince at the pain he was in. “I’ll put on an act of crying and pleading if you cut me an apple. Me mum always said I could be a mummer.”

“Cheeky son of bitch,” Cley snarled. “Let me do the honors, Bran. My Lord. This animal killed my men and many others besides!”

“Hold,” Bran ordered, raising a hand and calling for silence. “Do you deny these charges?”

Eryk shook his head. “Me mum always said not to lie. It won’t be the last thing I do. When the bastard said we was riding to ruin Winterfell for what it done to him, and that we gots to be quiet and sneaky-like, it ain’t like I was happy to do it. But I did it. I threw a torch or two. The bastard is our lord and we do what we’re told. When he said to me and my mates: ride them down, flush them out, keep them running. That’s what I did. I killed them men. You think when old Robert was at the Trident and yelled to us ‘now, boys, charge them, give them hells’ we stopped to question if it was wise? Ask him why we couldn’t all talk out our differences with those Crownlands fellas?”

“Is that really your excuse?” Cley asked, his voice cold and hateful. “For betraying your rightful King, Robb Stark? For betraying those who welcomed you as friends and allies?”

“Ahh,” Eryk groaned, shifting his broken leg under him. “Well. Yes. That’s me excuse, Lord Cerwyn. What did you expect me to say?”

His beaten face still red and purple, Cley Cerwyn began to draw his sword.

“I sentence you to death, Eryk,” Bran Stark said then, blue eyes staring down at him. “But my father always said: in the North, the man who passes the sentence will swing the sword. So, I will see it done. However, you can have clemency before you die if you tell us about the other Bolton groups out there. What say you?”

Eryk sighed and licked his lips. “I want an apple.”

“An… apple?”

“Aye,” Eryk replied, rather enjoying the look of confusion on the young lordling’s face. “Unlike some, I don’t mind making that kind of deal. Give me an apple and a clean death, and I’ll do it.”

“Uh… very well?”

“Then we have a deal.” Eryk narrowed his eyes, however. “I do want to ask, though… are you certain you can give me a clean death? No offense, m’lord, but you don’t look like you can decapitate a man in one swing.”

Bran smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” he promised, “You won’t feel a thing.”

. . .

(12) Bran

. . .

“I see another group,” the master warg said, emerging from his trance. Shaking his head and returning to his senses, Varamyr learned forward to point to a location on the map spread out before them. “There. At least twenty. No flayed men nearby.”

“If they were making zig-zagging search patterns, then there wouldn’t be,” Lady Tomasi reasoned, pointing to a marked spot on the detailed map. So detailed was it that Bran figured it to be as if some painter had stood atop a bird high above Winterfell. More likely, it was the magic of the Strangers. “Here.” She pointed. “We destroyed that group of Bolton men fourteen hours ago. All the men in this arc are probably safe.”

“Safe, but still fleeing,” Bran noted. “We must gather them, and they are close by. We will pick them up while we hunt.” He turned to the wilding skinchanger. “You have my thanks once more, master Varamyr, and the thanks of House Stark.”

“Always a pleasure, my lord,” Varamyr said with a dutiful dip of his head. “Tell me, how did it feel ending that man’s life? Did you taste the blood on your tongue, hot and sharp? Was it to your liking?”

Bran stared at the man for a moment, before glancing away. “It was no different that using a noose or a sword. I felt nothing in particular.”

“And Summer?”

“Summer enjoyed it more than I did,” Bran admitted. “But Summer is wolf, not a man, and now is not the time for more lessons. We have battles to fight, and no one has sharper eyes than you.”

“That is true,” Varamyr agreed with a wicked grin. He turned to Lady Tomasi and bowed. “I will retire for now.”

“Solid work as always, Varamyr,” the lady told him. “Expect good things when we get to your next performance review.”

The warg nodded and slipped out of the command tent. Jojen and Meera both mis-liked the wilding warg, but while Bran did not entirely trust him on a personal level, he did trust in the fact that Varamyr would do nothing to cross or antagonize the Strangers. They were the ones who had taken him south of the Wall, and they were the ones who had apparently given him comfortable lodgings, fine clothes, gold, and even apparently a small coterie of wildling women. He was a supremely skilled and dangerous warg, but he was still a servant of a greater power. Bran had more than once caught him staring hungrily at Lady Tomasi, but when she told him to leap, he leapt.

This fact was all the more amusing since Lady Lisa Tomasi was no terrifying woman. She was tall and slim with berry-blonde hair and grey eyes. She wore no armor, only comfortable but common traveling clothes, together with a number of pouches for herbs and a sling-bag with a leather strap that went over her chest. By all appearances, she was a well-born but not noble-born woman who happened to be playing medicine-woman. A patch on her chest identified her as a retainer of House Stark, which she was in a fashion…

“You should try and capture a bird for your own use as soon as you are able,” she advised, once Varamyr was gone. “Not that Varamyr isn’t doing a fine job, but two is always better than one, and the birds have utility.”

“I agree. I’m practicing,” Bran assured her, and took another look at the map. “I think it is time we split up to cover more ground. The majority can keep with us, hunting the Boltons… the rest can head here. This village is in a safe zone and men will congregate there. We will also need to secure a base with more supplies.”

“That makes it a target.”

Bran nodded. “It does. But we’ve gotten rid of the patrols here and here. Ramsay would have to be sending out dedicated groups to raid instead of letting the search parties engage… what did you call it? Targets of Opportunity? With how fast he fled to the Dreadfort to spread his lies, I think he’ll keep himself there… at least until he confirms what we’re doing.”

“What you’re doing, you mean,” Tomasi reminded him. “After all, we wanted to bring you to our outpost, not escort you as you ran around the countryside.”

“Yes, and Jojen wants me to head north of the Wall,” Bran concluded with a frown, including her in that. “I’ll give you all what you want… after I’ve set the North to rights and made up for my follies.”

“Kids grow up fast on this- _in_ this land,” the Strange woman mused. “Well, it seems you’ve made up your mind. I’ll leave you to it. Oh. One other thing.” She pointed to a part of the map and marked it with a colored pin. “You might want to check out here. About ten men. They’re in a cave.”

Bran raised an eyebrow in muted surprise. “I thought you said you had problems with men in caves?”

“These ones lit a fire.”

“And didn’t hide the smoke? Are they fools?”

“They hid the smoke. But the heat of the coals was all we needed to find them.”

“Terrifying as always,” Bran said simply.

“Thank Lady Maegyr when you meet her. She’s the one passing on the tips, not me.” Tomasi rose up and took her leave, waving a hand as she left. “And don’t forget your homework.”

“Ugh! I hate homework!”

“You and every other kid in the galaxy.”

Bran’s frown remained, but he let it go. _Stupid homework_.

He’d deal with it later. Calling for Hodor, he opted instead to check up on his men. Things had come a long way since he’d first crawled out of the Stark family crypts and surveyed the ruin of his home and hearth. It had just been himself, Rickon, Jojen, Meera, Hodor and Osha then, and when they had first emerged from the catacombs, Bran had not had any intention of undertaking his current course. Back then, with the smell of his burned home still sticking to the back of his throat and nose, with the sight of corpses – the corpses of people he knew and cared for – still burned into his memory, the plan that had taken form was to flee… specifically to flee north with Jojen and Meera and Hodor. At the time, there had been nothing he could do and nothing he could save in Winterfell, and the only way to atone and to make right of the worst was to find his oft-dreamt-of “destiny” North of the Wall.

In the first few seconds after emerging from the crypts, that had very much been the plan. He would go further north to the Wall and Osha, who had proven herself time and again, would take Rickon and hopefully link up with a loyal house like the Umbers. Smaller houses could be overcome or intimidated by Boltons so they would not do. It would have to be one of the major houses with a substantial presence left behind. The three that came to mind were the Umbers, the Manderlys, and the Karstarks. The Dustins and Ryswells were too close to the Boltons. Even he knew that. Once Rickon was safe, and once Robb returned North, only then could Brandon face the rest of his family. The hope was that by then he would have gone beyond the Wall and returned with some way to compensate for his failure as the Stark in Winterfell… and the Stark who _lost_ Winterfell.

It was on his orders that the garrison which had been left by Robb to defend Winterfell sortied in such force that they had only two dozen men to hold a castle larger than any north of the Neck. _Six hundred men_ should have been holding the walls of Winterfell. Six hundred men _had_ been holding it. Three hundred, at a minimum, should have remained no matter the circumstance. Rodrick Cassel was the one who had made the fateful suggestion, but it was Bran Stark, young though he was, who was the one ultimately in charge. It had been his decision to leave Winterfell practically unguarded.

 _His_ decision… **_his_**.

All those who died, _all of them_ , had been killed because of _him_. Theon was the one who had turned his cloak and ordered the killing, but it was Bran Stark’s negligence that would be remembered in the family histories. The deaths weren’t just history; they weighed on his conscience every morning when he woke up. Remove his mistakes, and Theon’s attack never occurs. Remove Theon, and the Boltons never ambush the others outside the walls and burn the castle. It _all_ began with his failure as the Stark in Winterfell to _protect Winterfell_. It was the one job he had: **Protect Winterfell**.

How could a man, or even a boy, atone for that?

Bran didn’t know but staying nearby would not be the way… or so he had thought, as he emerged from the crypts with Osha, Rickon, Jojen, Meera and Hodor. That was the route they would have gone, had fate not intervened. For shortly after leaving the crypts, a pair had waited for them outside in the burned courtyard.

Bran recalled the look of them, along with Osha’s shouted warning.

“Behind me!” she had cried, throwing a spear at the pair.

Bran still remembered, at the time with a mixture of shock and fear, how Osha’s spear had been deflected in midair by some strange magic. Of the pair, one was a man in plainly-designed but high-quality partial plate armor, not so far removed from what one might expect from a Manderly man or a particularly successful hedge knight. The other was a woman in traveling clothes. _She_ had been the one to deflect the spear, raising her hand and releasing a glowing pulse of light from her palm. It had been drizzling when they left the crypt, and Bran could recall seeing tiny pops in the air where the droplets hit the light and turned to steam.

Their names, Bran had learned in the minutes that followed, were Ser Holtmann and Lady Lisa Tomasi. They had come to take him, and Rickon both, to safety.

Naturally, they had not believed them. Winterfell was in ruins around them, the bodies of the fallen still face down in pools of lukewarm blood. It was hard to believe any man or woman to be a friend, much less an ally of House Stark. It was then that they found Maester Luwin.

The Maester had been trampled by a horse and stabbed in the fall of the castle. Somehow, he had dragged himself into the godswood with a view of the entrance to the catacombs. To his dying breath, he had been looking out for them and waiting for them.

“If you want me to believe you, then do something for him!” he had demanded.

“I know this one. The castle maester,” the woman said, tying her hair back behind her neck. “Luwin. Seventy-five. A-positive.” Something in her left eye glowed, like a spirit, and Bran had felt a strange vibration in the pit of his stomach when she put her fingertips up to Luwin’s chest. “And that is _a lot_ of internal damage. Penetrating _and_ blunt-force trauma.”

“Save maester Luwin, and I’ll listen to you,” Bran had promised them. As if to punctuate his point, Summer and Shaggydog had both growled menacingly, as if to assure them they would not be taken without a fight.

“You _can_ save him, can’t you?” Rickon had asked the woman, hiding behind his direwolf. “Maester Luwin promised everything would be alright.”

The woman seemed to soften at Rickon’s words, but quickly leaned over to whisper in her companion’s ear. Bran just barely heard something about a ‘vapor’ which made no sense in this context. How did one use a vapor? But the man shook his head.

“Be wary, Bran Stark,” Jojen whispered in his own ear. “Your journey does not end here.”

“I need to find a weapon,” Meera said, also in a low voice. She was scouring the battlefield looking for something suitable. “I don’t trust these two.”

“Hodor,” Hodor also had an opinion to share. Bran imagined he was reminding them that they had emerged from the catacombs to look for food, originally, and because the Winterfell ruins were sure to attract the attention of scavengers and predators, both animal and human.

“We’ll see what they can do,” Bran had told all three of them, and Osha besides. “But getting hold of some real weapons is a good idea. Meera, see what you can find. Osha, you stay here with Rickon.”

“Aye, little lord,” Osha agreed, eyes still fixed on the strange pair: the hedge knight and the woods witch.

Bran directed Hodor closer to them, despite his wariness, when the woman bent over Maester Luwin. He still lay beneath the Heart Tree, besides the pool, with one foot on the edge and another in the water. A trail of blood made clear the path he had taken, crawled, as he tried to find some escape from the fires. Summer was the one to find him first, and she bent over to muzzle his face. The woods-witch shooed the near fully grown direwolf away and deftly flipped the maester onto his back. She held some sort of stone up to his neck, and a second later his gray eyes shot open.

“W-who- what are…?” Luwin’s eyes dilated rapidly. “What? The pain… is gone? How?”

“Lie still,” the woman insisted. “I’m stabilizing you for transport.” With a featureless knife, she easily cut away some of the maester’s dark blood-stained robes. Retrieving another odd stone, she wedged it into a large stab wound, where it quickly bubbled and transformed into a white foam. Luwin gasped, feeling it cover up his wound, but didn’t seem to otherwise feel discomfort or distress.

“What - what is this? Some form of… milk of the poppy?” He stared, transfixed at his bared chest and the wound there. “Is that… a poultice? Oh. Oh, Bran!” he quickly put aside his medical curiosity and his eyes watered at the sight of the two Stark boys. “Rickon! The gods are truly good! I knew… I always knew…”

He sighed softly, as the woods-witch tended to his broken right arm.

“The legs… poor lads, but legs were wrong… couldn’t be you, and if one wasn’t you, the other wouldn’t be Rickon,” Luwin explained, growing more lucid even as his eyes took on a certain daze. “Oh. This milk of the poppy… doesn’t feel like poppy at all. Everything is so… clear. Like I can count the hairs on my hand.” He shook his head. “You escaped into the woods?”

“The crypts,” Osha answered, but her eyes flicked back to the healing magic of the woods-witch.

“The wolves went ahead and made a trail. We doubled back and hid in Father’s tomb,” Bran explained, and Luwin smiled and nodded appreciatively at the clever bit of last-moment deception.

“Clever boy. Clever boys,” Luwin said and relaxed slightly.

“We need to make a litter for him,” Osha worried, speaking to the woods-witch.

“No need for that,” she assured them. “He picked a nice open area.”

Luwin blinked a few times. “My Lady… might I ask… who are you?”

“Tomasi,” the witch replied, pulling some sort of thin sheep-skin glove off her hand. “I’m a doctor. You’ll be seeing more of us on Horizon. We have maesters there, too, so you can join them there.”

“Maesters… Horizon?” Luwin repeated, but clearly didn’t understand. Bran didn’t either.

“You could say we’re an order of foreign maesters. Only a select few in the Citadel know of us.” She paused a moment, and added, “Arya is on Horizon, too.”

“Arya!” Rickon cried. “You know Arya?”

“You have her?” Bran had asked, surprised and suddenly thrown for a loop.

“She is an important person to us,” the witch had answered him with a knowing smirk. “The two of you are important as well. That’s why we’re taking you away from all this for a while. We have an alliance with your brother, Robb, so he’ll be glad to know you’re safe and out of harm’s way.”

“My lady, I thank you for the help, but… the damage to my body…” Luwin began. “Once the bile gland has been ruptured, death is certain.”

“No,” the witch spoke firmly. “We can fix that. We just need to get you to a place with the right tools.”

“I have never seen such magics,” he muttered, but still smiled. “A female maester… you would do well to hide your knowledge. Not all would welcome the skills of a wood’s witch.”

“Honestly, I’m only saving you because Brandon here insisted,” the witch admitted with a shrug. “Believe me. I’m not planning on making a spectacle.”

They didn’t make a spectacle, either. The silent knight who accompanied Lady Tomasi has escorted them away, out of the godswood, and then when they returned Luwin was gone. No blood trail; just gone. Off to meet Arya on this place called Horizon. Holtmann, the black knight, was sworn to guard both Lady Tomasi and Bran himself. He had proven his worth not more than a day later, when they found their first Bolton patrol. Ser Holtmann had ripped them to pieces… quite literally, having decapitated a horse with a swing of his sword and batted another man with a backhand hard enough to snap his neck and leave it dangling like a broken puppet. He also seemed to live in his armor. Bran had never seen him out of it.

Soon, they had been joined by others. First, there were the stragglers and survivors of the disaster under Winterfell’s walls. Then Lady Tomasi had returned from the woods one day with Master Varamyr, a wildling under her people’s employ. Varamyr had further arrived with his own entourage: three wolves, a shadowcat, a bear and a handsome red-footed falcon with spotted plumage. The latter was normal enough. All the others? Well, they had caused a bit of a commotion.

Master Varamyr took it in stride, however, only caring for the opinions of Lady Tomasi. She had brought him, she explained, to better teach Bran to use his special skills. He was the finest and most powerful warg they knew of thus far, but they had high hopes that Bran could surpass him. Unfortunately, he did not get along very well with basically anyone else and saw himself as innately superior. Only Lady Tomasi kept him from picking fights with ‘southerners.’

Time had helped somewhat there, as Varamyr earned his keep.

Bran often made sure to let survivors know that they he had located them with Varamyr’s help, and that he did not appreciate any infighting. They all had to work together to fight and to survive. It wouldn’t be long before Ramsay Bolton realized his situation. Thus far, he had been content to weave a tall tale about how Theon Greyjoy had sallied out of Winterfell and killed Leobald Tallhart, Ser Rodrick, and a half dozen others depending on who you asked. Clearly Theon Greyjoy was Ser Arthur Dayne come again.

That fanciful story, laying all the blame on the Ironborn, would not long survive the truth. Already many doubted it, and as word spread of Bran’s existence that would put paid to it soon enough. He would gather men and call for reinforcements in the meantime, but Bran also held few illusions – most of the available men who could ride to help him had already ridden and subsequently been scattered by Bolton betrayal. When word got out that Bran Stark was alive, refuting the Bolton story, and gathering men, Ramsay would _have_ to ride out to try and kill him. It was the only way he could keep hiding behind his lies.

Ramsay had about six hundred men, Bran knew.

By Lady Tomasi’s accounting of corpses, they had thus far killed exactly eighty-five flayed men. It was a good start, but Ramsay still outnumbered them if he took the field now.

But he would die.

Bran Stark vowed it. Sitting on Hodor’s broad shoulders, surveying the rescued men around him arming themselves and making ready to break camp, Bran Stark vowed it on his family’s honor. On his _honor_. Ramsay Bolton would **die** , and so would Theon Turncloak, who had gone with the bastard back to the Dreadfort. Justice was coming for them. He would taste their blood in his tongue as they died. Or - or rather... _Summer_ – Summer would taste their blood. Summer would. Then and only then, with justice done, would he head north. Every day Jojen insisted his destiny was North. North. _North_.

But this _was_ the North. His destiny was here, too, or nowhere.

“I’m a Stark,” Bran said to himself, and at the edge of the camp, his direwolf howled. He remembered the Bolton words from his lessons. “My teeth are sharp.”

 


	5. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interludes: Arya, Bloodraven
> 
> Chapters  
> (13) Jon (12k)

. . .

Arya

. . .

Arya Stark   
[942-04-013]

**Bronze Age Cultures of Essos**

There were four major centers of civilization in the Bronze Age. All four were in Essos. What is bronze? Bronze is a mixture of copper and tin. Bronze is better for making tools and weapons than bone or wood or stone. The first people to use bronze were the First Men. The oldest forms of First Man bronze used arsenic. Later everyone used tin because it was safer to make and better. Bronze helped the First Men settle in Westeros and fight the Giants and the Children of the Forest. Brass is an alloy of copper. Brass is like bronze, except it uses Zinc. Zinc is less common than tin because it is harder to separate from rocks. Now you know three different types of copper alloys.

Sarnor is one of the major civilizations in the Bronze Age. It was built along the Sarne river, which flowed from the Silver Sea to the Shivering Sea. During this age it controlled most of northern and western Essos. The people of Sarnor are called Tall Men or Tagaez Fen. According to legend, the Tall Men are descended from Huzhor Amai, who was descended from the Fisher Queens. He united the Gipps, the Cymmeri, and the Zoqora. The Sarnori did not have knights. They had chariots. They also wiped out the Hairy Men, who may have been from Ib, and drove them off the main-land.

Sarnor was made up of many cities. Sarnath was the main city of these people. Sarnor was very wealthy and powerful in the Bronze Age. Mostly, they fought with the Qaathi to the south. The Ifokan Tablet is a record of a treaty between the Sarnori and the Qaathi. The Sarnori traded fine products with other great civilizations of this age. Examples of these products are fine woodworks, arts, religious figures, pottery and clothing. Sarnor was devastated when the drying period began but survived until the modern era. The Dothraki destroyed most of the remaining cities. Saath is the last Sarnori city and it is controlled by the Free City of Lorath.

Ghiscar is the second major civilization of the Bronze Age. The center of the First Empire of Ghis was the city of Ghis, now called Old Ghis. Ghis was famous for building pyramids and having lockstep legions. Ghis conquered many nearby peoples and enslaved them. The Ghiscari were skilled in mathematics. Their civilization was built around Slaver’s Bay and they were skilled sailors. The First Empire was ruled by an Emperor and eight governors. The Emperor was chosen from one of the governors. The Ghiscari had many civil wars in the Bronze Age.

Ghiscar imported food and traded in slaves and copper. They also traded exotic goods gathered overseas. Ghiscari artifacts from the First Empire have been found as far west as Oldtown and as far east as Leng. The Ghiscari First Empire fell when the dying period meant there were no food imports. Many people died of famine and foreign people invaded. Later, the Second Empire fought five wars with the Valyrian Freehold. They lost every war. The Valyrians destroyed Old Ghis but three cities survived. Those cities are Mereen, Astapor and Yunkai. Lots of people think the world would be a better place if they had finished the job. The symbol of Ghis is the harpy.

Hyrkoon is the third major civilization of the Bronze Age. Hyrkoon ruled over the land between the Bone Mountains and the Mountains of the Morn. The center of the Patrimony was Hyrkanabad, which is now in the Great Sand Sea. Hyrkoon was founded by Hyrkoon the Hero, who sounds a lot like the Last Hero of the First Men. Hyrkoon had few large cities. In the Bronze Age it was considered warlike and often fought with other people. Just like with Sarnor, men and women could both fight in Hyrkoon. Women who fought were called warrior maids and they rode in chariots as archers. Hyrkoon may have copied the Sarnori with this tradition. The women warriors of Hyrkoon are famous around the world today.

Hyrkoon was destroyed when the Dry Times happened. Nomadic barbarians called Jogos Nhai took advantage and killed many people. Almost all the land was ruined. Most of Hyrkoon is now a desert or grassland. Only the cities of Kayakayanaya, Shamyriana and Bayasabhad survive in the Bone Mountains. Also some small settlements in well defended areas and also the Five Forts. Hyrkoon traded in copper and tin. It was one of the few sources of tin in the region and it was wealthy and powerful in the Bronze Age.

Yi Ti was the fourth major civilization of the Bronze Age. Yi Ti is located east of the Bone Mountains and north of the Jade Sea. The Golden Empire of Yi Ti has had eleven dynasties. In the Bronze Age, the most important dynasty was the grey one. The Empire was mostly not united in this time. The two main cities in the Bronze Age were Tiqui and Yin. Yi Ti was founded by the Pearl Emperor in the time before the Long Night and he ruled for one thousand years. There is no archeo-logical evidence, though.  But Garth Greenhand was also supposed to have lived that long. Maybe they’re the same person?

Yi Ti traded with Hyrkoon over land and with Ghis and Qarth by sea. It was very rich but mostly the Yi Ti cities fought one another. Twice, a volcano erupted in Leng and it killed many people. When the Dry Times ended the old Bronze Age, Yi Ti became very wet instead and the jungles expanded. Today, many abandoned cities can be found in the jungles. Rivers changed their courses and new cities were built. During the Dry Times, Yi Ti was invaded many times also. The five-hundred-year gap after the last Grey Emperor died is called the YiTish Dark Age.

Now you know four major civilizations of the ancient Bronze Age in Essos.

The Dry Times ended the Bronze Age in Essos. What caused the Dry Times and why was it so bad? There are very few written records. Nutrients in the soil were depleted in many regions. For example, the Qaathi people had to keep moving south when they could not grow food. Eventually, many people ran out of good farmland to support large populations. Cyclical changes in climate reduced rainfall in many areas. Many civilizations could not adapt. Widespread starvation also led to invasions and migrations of people, like the ancestors of the Dothraki. In the end, the centers of civilization moved west, as the Valyrian Freehold and the Rhyonar came to power. One lesson we can learn from this is that civilization is precious and also that people must adapt to changes over which they have no control. Conservation is also important, and resources must be managed wisely. Even better than one lesson is four lessons.

This concludes my report on ancient civilizations in Essos.

Arya Stark  
[This document transcribed with assistance from AI: VISENYA in accordance and compliance with base protocols] READ [00012:3542011:231:609221] PASS CHECK [1:1:1]

 

. . .

Brynden

. . .

Among practitioners of the art, it was well known: visions were a fickle mistress.

The Ghiscari even had a famous adage about it, to the effect of prophecy being a beautiful woman who gives you pleasure a moment before she bites off your member. Such was the nature of prophecy, and even before his transformation, Brynden Rivers had heard and understood the cautionary tales. He knew vision and future-sight had to be taken with a grain of mental and magical salt.

It didn’t matter if they were shadow-visions, like those taught in Asshai, flame-scrying in Rh’llor, or the ancient greensight of Westeros. Any attempt to view the future, or to a lesser extent the present, was inevitably flawed in some way, and inherently possessed of a certain innate unreliability. Even the ancients knew it. Even the non-human races knew it!

The Children of the Forest themselves had a tale: a great seer had a vision of winning in a game of _hopoi_ , analogous to playing dice. As Children are fond of games of chance, the seer attended every tribal _hopoi_ game, and always bet on twin-snakes. Yet again and again the great seer lost. Every time he doubled down on his vision of winning, however, and kept betting twin-snakes. A hundred times and one he bet and lost, until on the hundred and second twin-snakes won. The seer, triumphant, then claimed it was all coming to pass as he had foreseen. Another Child, having been present for all this, then asked, ‘your vision saw you lose a hundred and one times in a row?’

Visions were unreliable. They rarely if ever filled in any of the details that led from keep to godswood. They rarely gave any information on exactly when they would come to pass: later today, tomorrow, next year, next winter, _a hundred years from now?_ Few visions indeed included a nearby calendar on the wall with an arrow indicating the date and time. Visions tended to be vague. Fortune-tellers and prophets were oft accused of being self-servingly vague when it came to their prophecies, and many were just this to reduce the likelihood of being proven wrong, but even genuine visions of the future were generally just as nebulous.

For some time since the burning of Winterfell, Brynden Rivers had contemplated this quandary. His concern had multiplied after seeing the strange sky-ship in the South, but even before that there had been unanswered questions and other oddities. Letting the Sea take Winterfell had not been an incident that filled him with confidence to begin with. The future would be in chaos if something happened to Brandon Stark, and there were no guarantees, even in the light of greensight. He had worried. How could he not? He was still human, even if he was also the three-eyed raven. The maesterly questions of his youth had become the facts of his dotage when the roots first pierced his skin.

Out of the hundreds of visions he had experienced over the last century, he had admittedly focused on only a few. Not all were relevant or important visions, one of his old masters had told him. There was no “searching engine” to sort the useful visions from the random and often useless chaff. You had to use your judgement. He had seen the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark, for example: the dragon and the wolf mating in the woods. Aside from being not exactly the most enjoyable sight to begin with, he hadn’t considered it important at the time he had it. Some Stark and some Targaryen having a tryst? Who cared? Well, apparently it had been a bigger deal than he’d thought at the time. Who knew? It wasn’t like there was a lot of context to it. It wasn’t like the visions were in any sort of logical or chronological order.

Thinking back, now, Brynden tried to recall some of the other visions he had dismissed.

It was hard to remember. The weirwoods allowed access to the past and the present but didn’t help him recall his own visions or his own memories, neither of which had happened in the physical world. His mind was still as sharp as when he was a young man, fortunately, but many of the old visions he’d dismissed as unimportant had faded from memory like a fleeting dream. He did remember a few though. One of the ones he recalled was the Black and Gold Eagle.

Once in a rare while, when having a vision of young Brandon, he had seen another bird. Usually, it was high in the sky, flying around as birds oft did. A black eagle. With a spotted chest. It never caused any overt harm in those visions and so Brynden generally thought little of it. Which was doubly strange, in retrospect…

Because it was obvious now that the eagle had landed.

So why, in all the visions Brynden could recall, had it always been aloof? It was all damned strange. Just _damned_ strange. On top of that, the Children who lived near him were also talking… mostly about the giants and how the ‘Eagle took them.’ They were apparently through the Wall now. No one was sure exactly how they’d done it, though. There were rumors, both from the _Children of Essos_ and among the Wildlings, that men calling themselves traders and scholars were looking for Children of the Forest, not to harm them, but to learn from them as in ages past. Strange things were afoot, and Bloodraven knew he wasn’t the only greenseer and prophet who had taken to thinking back on old forgotten visions for some clue as to what was happening. Gods! If only he had written things down! If only he could still write!

Well, it was no point crying over no-longer-possible penmanship. His raven had caught sight of the woman who had to be The Eagle, or maybe one of the men and women who were agents of The Eagle. For the nonce, the Raven would watch. The Crippled Wolf needed to shed his fur and become the next Raven. Brynden had expected that to occur naturally immediately after the fall of Winterfell. Perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps also the wounded Wolf would befriend the Eagle and bring it down as an ally in the war to come. THEN it would become the next Raven. Again: it wasn’t like there was a calendar on the wall of the cave showing when Brandon Stark took his place.

Then again, maybe if he put one up, it would appear in the next vision?

Probably not, but there was no point being the foolish seer who lost a hundred bets to win just one. Flexibility was the greatest strength of Men over Children. He could adjust his plans as need be. At least now he had a few faces to go along with the aloof Eagle. For now, he would watch and wait and see. Listening to the world around him and the gathering at his feet and around his roots, he almost chuckled. It seemed the Children of the Forest were of a similar temperament and had come to a similar conclusion. They would let events in Essos play out and only then make a decision on the matter. It was just as well. Essosi and Westerosi ancients had never gotten along, so if they were set upon by the Eagle, it would be little loss for a little wisdom.

. . .

(13) Jon

. . .

Lomas Longstrider was, without a doubt, one of the most famous explorers in Westerosi history and lore. His travels and his writings, immortalized for formally giving name to the Fourteen Wonders, seven natural and seven made by men, were beloved of men and boys of all ages. Jon remembered well feeling the excitement and awe when Maester Luwin had first read from the early chapters of _Wonders_ to Robb, Theon and himself during their tutelage. When Sansa and Arya and Bran came along, the books had been dusted off and re-read to them as well, and Jon remembered smiling knowingly as the familiar passages brought fresh wonder to his younger half-sibling’s faces. Even on those occasions when their father was present, the Lord of Winterfell’s serious visage could be seen to soften. Even Lord Eddard Stark had been young, once, and like his children he had probably sat with awe when he heard the Longstrider’s tales of far-off Asshai and Yi-Ti.

It was well-known, then, that the indomitable and fearless Longstrider had felt a pang of doubt when he at-last reached the great Bone Mountains of the East, and that he went no further overland past the formidable fortress sister-cities of Bayasabhad, Kayakayanaya and Shamyriana. Instead, faced with the vast and pitiless emptiness beyond that was the Great Sand Sea, and hostile people there, he instead turned south to the warm waters and warmer hospitality of the Jade Sea. For all intents and purposes, then, the Bone Mountains and the three cities that guarded it were the edge of the truly-known Westerosi world. Everything directly east and north were but myth and legend.

Jon Snow stood on that edge now, one hand scratching Ghost behind his ear, the other holding a skewer of charred meats and small sweet onions. Bayasabhad… didn’t _feel_ like the edge of the known world…

Not when he had basically gotten there in a day.

Bringing the wooden skewer to his mouth, Jon carefully plucked one of the cubes of lamb off with his front teeth and dropped it into his palm. Ghost quickly licked it up with the tip of his wet tongue, not too concerned about giving it much of a taste. Unlike his wolf, Jon took his time to chew and savor the strange taste of the meat and jellied mint. It was good; certainly, it was better fare than he had enjoyed since leaving Winterfell. It was tastier even than many of the foods the Stranger’s people had shared with him, all of which seemed to come out of queer bags and paper boxes. This was fresh and more to his liking and understanding.

The view was pleasant as well. The Great Sand Sea that the Lomas Longstrider had once seen stretched out before Jon Snow now, east where the Bone Mountains shrank into a valley and continuing all the way to the horizon. Bayasabhad was both fortress and city, and it was built in orderly layers atop a great promontory overlooking a widening valley with a dead river at its heart. Once upon a time, it was said, the river had flowed fast and furious into the rich and fertile heartlands beyond… but it was all desert, now: rivers, lakes, flood plains, farms, villages, cities, all burned to ash by savages or turned to dust by nature.

The mountains here were called the Dry Bones for a good reason.

Jon could see more of the Bones to the south. Higher and more treacherous than the Mountains of the Moon back in Westeros, the Bones were said to be nearly impenetrable in the north, where they were wracked by blizzards and freezing glacial ice, while in the south the dryness and the craggy terrain made even the rare goat-path dangerous. Bayasabhad controlled the only safe passes and roads, parts of which were cut long ago through the mountains themselves. This dominion included custodianship of the greatest and most famous of the mountain passes, the Wonder Made by Nature called the Crystal Way. More than the roads, they also had control over the only sources of fresh water. Armies had tried taking it from both east and west, Dothraki hordes, Jogos _jhattars_ , and even the occasional foolhardy Yitish warlord. All had added their bones to the mountain of dead men that came before them. The Three Sisters of the Bone Mountains were considered effectively unassailable.

Jon could see why.

Most of the Fortress City was built on a trio of leveled plateaus with a network of caverns beneath and burrowing into the mountain. The second tier, with the best views of the valley, was both the most militarized and the most prestigious. The lower tier had most of the public buildings and much of it could be seen from the taller buildings of the second tier. The third tier was the highest, crescent shaped, and facing back towards the mountains just like the first tier. There were two large holdfasts integrated into that part of the city, both overlooking the incline that led up to the city gates and waystations. A third citadel was further built into a promontory some distance from the city and accessible only through tunnels in the rock. It loomed threateningly over the curve in the ramp where it switched back and connected to the main road that ran partly through a great tunnel under the city.

Bayasabhad’s defenses were formidable indeed, but as a city, it was rather small and compact. Stone blocks of apartments sprouted like weeds over every tier, fighting for space, and there were villas and apartments built that seemed to be clinging precariously to cliff-faces that Jon found nerve-wracking to imagine growing up in. White stone seemed to be favored, often carved in elaborate reliefs, and everywhere the larger buildings were capped by strangely shaped tile roofs in gold and red. The city had only a few open areas, conserving the space by using vast colonnades or repurposing a roof to hold a green garden. Many homes also seemed to have ‘open’ floors with columns instead of walls, to provide the illusion of more space.

“I don’t understand how people can live here, like _this_ ,” a woman’s voice interrupted Jon’s thoughts, and he felt the presence of Ygritte as she walked by him to flick a wooden skewer off the ledge. “It isn’t natural.”

“You get used to the height,” Jon said, recalling how his father had once said the same thing about his time fostered at the Eyrie. That, and the sage advice of _never look down_.

“I don’t mean the height, Snow,” Ygritte growled, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “I mean living in all these little stone holes and huts, piled one on top the other like a cairn. It isn’t natural. Stay here and you’ll go mad as a cave-dweller. Did you ever meet one of those?” He stood up, shaking his head, and she took that as a no. “They’re happier painting their skin instead of wearing furs, and they sharpen their black teeth to make them fangs. Coat them with poison, too, somehow. One bite is all it takes to kill a man; all Free Folk know it. And,” she added with a smirk, “they make a fine meal out of any crows they catch.”

“Well, I can’t say I ever had the pleasure of meeting one,” Jon said, and resumed nibbling on his lamb skewer, plucking the last few morsels off and looking around.

The local people had an odd custom.

They had these… “bins” where one was expected to dispose of trash, to better keep the fortress-city sanitary. Their hosts had warned them that to not use the “bins” was a crime, one Ygritte did not seem to worry herself over. Jon quickly saw one a short walk away: it was a squat stone receptacle with a painted iron cover that cleverly swung closed and kept out water and insects. Snapping the skewer in half, he slipped it in. It was always smart to follow the rules when one was a guest in another’s home, and perhaps this curious custom of “trash bins” could one day be brought to Westeros as well. One day.

“You’ll meet one, Jon Snow,” Ygritte promised. “When Mance Rayder sets them on that Wall of yours.”

It went largely without saying that Ygritte was not very happy about the situation in general, either his or hers. She seemed to relish every opportunity to bring up how Mance was going to take the Wall and wipe out the Night’s Watch and that Jon Snow should be there to see it, since he had thrown in his lot with them.

“Aye,” he replied, taking a second to whistle and call Ghost over. “Our new friends will love that. You think if Mance takes the Wall that they’ll give him the same deals they gave the Watch?”

“They will,” she said, confidently. She still had her back to him as she looked out over the Great Sand Sea. Abruptly, another topic came to mind. “I heard tell there’s a Free Folk woman in the city. Apparently, I’m not the only one.”

“Really?” Jon doubted it was true. “All the way out here?”

Ygritte snorted and turned on him with hands on hips. “You do know nothing, Jon Snow. How many Free Folk do you think are taken by slavers, every year?”

“You want to find this woman?”

“Don’t you worry, we won’t have to go far,” she assured him. “I doubt your friends want us wandering around or getting into any _real_ trouble.”

“No doubts about it,” Jon grumbled. Back at the estate (the Strangers called it a ‘compound’ for some reason) they were free to come and go, but they were never far from the Watch’s new allies and never out of sight. All he had to do was look down at his clothes to remember, or to look at Ygritte’s own clothes for that matter, which were much like his own.

Back when they had first been taken, the Stranger and his people had unceremoniously relieved Ygritte of her wildling attire (something about being lice infested) just as he had with Jon and subsequently given them new clothes, functional and nondescript like his own, but black in honor of the Watch. Ygritte had strongly protested this… especially wearing black, but her protests had soon evaporated when her clothes somehow killed the lice in her hair. It was some sort of alchemy, no doubt, but it was hard to complain about anything that killed gods-damned lice. The Stranger had also given Jon back his weapons, including Longclaw, but told them that Ygritte would remain disarmed. No doubt the Stranger had meant that as a pun, since Ygritte still had a clean stump where her left hand had once been.

The weeks after meeting the Stranger had not been entirely kind to her. No bones were made about the fact that she was only alive and only there because Jon insisted. Several times the Stranger or his people had tried to separate them, yet at the same time they had not allowed Ygritte to escape or leave on her own accord. Many times, she had tried. After the third, the Stranger himself had explained that it was impossible to run. A magical pebble of some sort had been put in her body (called a ‘chip’), allowing them to find her anywhere, anytime. Jon suspected he had one as well, not that he was inclined to escape, given the deal between the Stranger’s men and the Night’s Watch.

Funny enough, it was that same deal with the Watch that was ostensibly his reason for being here, so far from Westeros. Just as Bayasabhad was an alien but not entirely unfamiliar city to Westerosi eyes, there was a brother-organization of the Night’s Watch further east at the Five Forts. According to the Stranger’s people, and the maesters who worked with them, the ancient Patrimony of Hyrkoon was the original patron of the order there and continued to support it even today.

From what Jon had seen of the Patrimony, however, he couldn’t imagine the order that controlled the Five Forts was very much like the Night’s Watch. Ygritte had the right of it. The ways of the people here were… Jon didn’t want to think ‘unnatural’ but they were certainly strange.

The pair moved through the city, packed as it was with revelers.

The sun was setting, and the air was thick with incense and colored fires waving in the air from tall iron poles. The people of Bayasabhad were skilled alchemists and ironworkers and could turn flames and smokes into a variety of colors.

This night was a celebration for one of the new patriarchs of the city, and he had commissioned a great light show to go with the swaying incense censures and free food and drink. Jon could hear the distant beat of drums. They would continue to pound so long as the patriarch was receiving his new tattoo, a process that would take hours. In the meantime, dancers cavorted, priests cried, maidens of the man’s family fought mock battles, and stirred on by the music and incense more than a few acts of shamelessness occurred in the streets.

For his part, Jon was fine with just the free food.

“They do something to their boys,” Ygritte said as they ascended stone steps between apartment blocks. “Not just cutting them, wrong as that is,” she explained, “Their spearwives, too. I didn’t believe it at first, but…”

“The potions, you mean?” Jon had seen them in their host’s estate.

“Magic,” Ygritte said the word like a curse.

“You don’t believe they have potions that can make them fiercer in battle?”

She scoffed again. “Free Folk aren’t fools, Jon Snow. Chew on a fire-eye mushroom and you’ll have the same effect. But no _normal_ brew makes a man into a woman, or a woman into a man.”

“The maids here are certainly… something else,” Jon answered with a bit of tact. “But I wouldn’t call them _men_ , by any means. As for the rest? Essos in general just seems to love eunuchs for some reason.”

They passed by them at they walked: men, but men who weren’t truly men. They hardly looked different, to be honest, wearing normal clothes and even celebrating and talking and doing all the things a man could do… in public. These were the men of Hyrkoon, by and large. Something like nine in ten of them were gelded, but at a slightly later age than was normal in Essos. They served the city and their families as merchants, workers, scholars, priests and craftsmen. Jon couldn’t imagine. Even though men of the Watch took vows of celibacy (more technically vows not to _marry_ ), they were still men. It was a virtue to overcome one’s desires. What was virtuous about having your desires taken from you by force? He found it hard to imagine any man, much less the thousands here, simply consented to it all.

But, apparently, they did.

Before the journey, Jon had tried to familiarize himself and read up on the east of Essos and the places and peoples there, so at not to appear ignorant or make a fool of himself. Quite a bit had been written by travelers, like Longstrider, and even a few maesters about the Three Sisters of the Bones. More than a little was exaggeration. The first thing he learned on arrival was that there were “Great Fathers” and then there were “Fathers.” Great Fathers belonged to a few great families. Those families decided, in conclave, which among their male offspring would be gelded and which would continue on. A family would typically always have at least one boy go ungelded so as not to end themselves.

Which ones were rewarded by keeping their most male parts? Apparently, martial skill was taken as the ultimate virtue. Great Fathers were the greatest and strongest warriors of their generation. They went on to marry… each one having about a dozen wives, mostly from the other great or lesser families, plus the occasional commoner. The famous warrior maids were their daughters, and apparently only the daughters of specific families that could afford to pay for their training and equipment. They were also very literally warrior maids, as when they eventually married, they became part of the city reserve and the City Watch, separate from the Great Guard. Joining them only in the latter and not the former were the future Fathers and Great Fathers to be, who functioned as officers.

They were fewer in number, however, and even now Jon could see some older warrior-ladies up on the high walls, keeping an eye on the city and people below, removed from the celebration and antics of their warrior-maid daughters. These women had the power of life or death in the city, as in the legends, but the truth was more complicated and nuanced than the books had foretold.

Walking down a street, Jon pointed to where one maid was firing arrows into a target for the amusement of a crowd. A servant in colorful robes was throwing a round woven shield into the sky and she was nimbly hitting it in mid-air.

Jon stole a quick glance over at Ygritte. “Bet you’d like one of their bows.”

“You know it! A few moons ago I’d have just _taken_ one,” the wildling woman joked, a faint crack of a smile briefly gracing her features before she returned to her more morose normal. She made no effort to hide or mask her missing hand, but with how often she glanced at it, it was no mystery what she thought about it and how it made her feel.

“Did you know they use horn to make their bows?” she asked as she walked, slowing a little to watch the archer make another shot. “Horn! Who ever thought of that?”

“I tried one, the other day. It wasn’t as hard to draw as a longbow.”

Jon had been taught archery in Winterfell, just like the true Stark children… and Greyjoy. Rodrick had deemed him proficient, the same as Robb, and on the Wall he had been one of the best shots at Castle Black. Long or short, most Westerosi bows outside Dorne were made of a single piece of wood, much like those among the wildlings that he had seen, and typically that wood was yew. Many castles also made treated bows out of a combination of yew, on the outside, and hickory, black ash, or ironwood on the belly. The North had plentiful supplies of all four and was the only source of ironwood in the world. Most of the bows Jon had trained with as a young man were between a hundred and hundred and thirty pounds of draw weight. The Hyrkoon bows he had seen the warrior maids use felt more like eighty to a hundred pounds draw, though there was one bow he had tried in his host’s armory that felt like it had a draw of more than a hundred and sixty pounds.

“They have those rings on their thumbs, too,” Ygritte observed, and held up her remaining hand for emphasis, wagging her thumb in the air. “I never even _thought_ of using my thumb like that… and wearing a ring with your glove…? Now that’s an idea worth stealing.”

“I tried it. It feels like you have less control over the arrow.”

“One finger instead of two, Snow.”

“They shoot much faster than we do, though,” he added, as the archer now held one arrow between her fingers even as she fired and hit a target. She then quickly brought the arrow into place and fired a second time, hitting the target just at it reached the ground. As far as Jon knew, no one in Westeros drew an arrow with their thumb. Everyone either pinched the string with their thumb and index finger or held the string with their index and middle finger. That was the normal way people did it.

“Aye,” Ygritte agreed, and Jon smiled a little at how her older-self seemed to come back: spirited and confident and full-of-life, no matter how fleeting. He knew it wouldn’t last for very long, but he generally enjoyed it when it did. Sadly, there was only so much he could do to coax it out of her these days.

“Let me think,” she muttered, looking left and right at an intersection. The path ahead led down some steps, to the right it opened into a square, and to the left the steps ascended again. “This way!” she decided, grabbing his hand and leading him to the square.

It was actually sort of amazing, how quickly she adapted to the strange new places she had been taken to, none at all like the world of the Free Folk she had spent all her life in. Back at the Stranger’s Compound, she had learned how to make her way around more quickly than he had. The strange smoke-less lights that they put up had unnerved Jon and Ghost alike for days, but Ygritte had brushed them off after one evening poking one with a stick and trying to crack it open. Now, at the edge of the known world, she felt far more confident weaving through the crowded streets of Bayasabhad than he himself did.

Up ahead, in the square as they passed through, Jon could see another pair of warrior maids about to duel.

“Look,” Jon said, turning enough to look over the fur of his cloak’s left shoulder. “Wait a moment. There’s a pair of them going at it right now.”

Ygritte turned, too, but sighed.

Behind them a pair of warrior maids had attracted a crowd for the festivities, whipping them up by waving their spears high in the air or banging them against a steel-rimmed shield. The pair of girls would be sisters or cousins, not strangers, and daughters of the celebrating patriarch’s extended family. For all that, they looked little alike. One was fair-skinned with hair blond enough she could’ve been a Lannister. The other was Yitish, with almond eyes and dark hair. Both were unusually tall. Taller than either Jon or Ygritte. Despite being perhaps ten and seven or ten and six.

They wore not ceremonial garb (the famous iron nipple rings) but the equipment Bayasabhad’s warrior women took to the field and could be seen wearing when on patrol on the walls. To Jon’s Westerosi eye, and he had not shared this observation with Ygritte, the warrior maid’s gear at first reminded him of what many a teenage boy imagined a wildling spearwife would wear: namely _not that much_.

Their upper thighs were bare, except where silk was wrapped tight to the skin and held in place with twisted gold or silver bracelets. A large metal belt with dangling tassels did little to conceal the furred wrap about the maids’ groins, and they went about with their breasts bared entirely, for celebrations, or wrapped in silk more normally. The only actually armored areas of their bodies were their steel greaves, shoulders, neck and their heads, which were suitably protected by knightly standards. Each maid carried a large oval shield, long and wide as their torso and rimmed with steel, as well as weapons in the form of a very large knife, a well-made spear with a leaf-shaped tip, a sling, and a bow. Just as in the Longstrider’s tales, the maids pierced their nipples with steel and their cheeks with a single glittering ruby.

 “Tormund would’ve liked these women,” Ygritte sniffed, disdainfully. “Next best thing to a she-giant.”

“Years ago, Dacey Mormont came to Winterfell and Robb and I watched her fight Ser Rodrick,” Jon recalled with a wistful grin. “She’s of a height with these maids.”

“A _Mormont_ woman?” Ygritte was familiar with the northern family. “She-bear instead of she-giant.”

“She’d take that as a compliment, I’d wager. Lady Dacey was about as old as these maids, back then, and already said to be one of the finest warriors in the north,” he continued, and wondered, “I wonder how she’d fare in a fight with one of these warrior-maids? She had the reach and build for it.”

Ygritte scoffed. “We don’t have any fancy houses and no spearwife worth her name shows what she’s really capable of when she don’t have to… but I once saw Willow Witch-Eye kill two men fast as you can blink. A pair of Rattleshirt’s men what wanted to jump her and carry her off. Don’t know how she’d fare against that she-bear of yours, but I wouldn’t want to fight her up close. Old Harma’s a hard raider, too, but I’ve never seen her do anything, so I can’t say much there.”

Ygritte reached up to brush some of her red hair out of her eyes.

“I don’t know any spearwives big as these two, though,” she admitted, with a touch of envy, “Seems like all the spearwives here have about three stone on me and I’m not a small girl, Jon Snow.”

Jon wasn’t so sure about that. By standards south of the Wall, Ygritte _was_ a little skinny and on the short side. Three stone was about forty westerosi-pounds, though, and it wasn’t an exaggeration. All the people of Bayasabhad were tall and broad. The women were the size of most men in Westeros, and the men… even the eunuchs…? The Great Fathers treated their sons pretty disgracefully, by Jon’s accounting, but in terms of size and strength they had some claim to their name, and the daughters to their fame.

In the square, flanked by a crowd supporting one or the other, the warrior maids began their duel, using spears and knives. As Ygritte said, they were big women and extremely strong to begin with. Their skill with their short spears was also nothing to dismiss, whirling and striking and using both the bladed end, a spiked section of the shaft, and the blunt steel counterweight as well. Jon had some experience and training with the spear. These, he knew, were designed for use on wall defense and together with the large shield, both alone and in a shield wall.

They would offer little defense against a cavalry charge with couched lance and heavy armor, but those also seemed to be non-existent in Essos. In Essos, archery was king, and the warrior maids could function both as archers and slingers and defend themselves well in a melee. On the walls, they would be formidable indeed, and even their lack of armor could have the benefit of endurance. The shield was obviously an essential component in their training and tactics. The layered silk seemed utterly inadequate to him to defend against sword or spear, but it was apparently quite good at catching barbed and broad-point arrows. Jon figured he’d believe it when he saw it.

The women fought to first blood – the blonde suffering a cut to the thigh – and then a servant appeared to hand out free food while the crowd clapped appreciatively, a crowd that included one other warrior maid from another family who seemed to be ribbing the winner. It was all in good cheer, and when the servant came around, Jon took one of the offered candies made of honeycomb in a thin pastry shell. Ygritte took a literal handful of three and immediately gobbled up one in a single huge bite that left her mouth full of sticky honey.

“Come on. Let’s get going,” she said, though it sounded more like, ‘Mggfhgnung.’

She led him up to what appeared to be another estate, or what passed for an estate in the crowded vertical fortress-city. A guard at the door, a daughter of the family, stopped them. Jon fished around in his pocket, but even with one hand, Ygritte was faster: she pulled out a small disk on a chain, with a seal on it, that identified her as a guest of the city’s Great Fathers. The guard, a middle-aged woman, frowned and stared suspiciously at them, and at Ghost, who seemed to smell something nice (or foul, it was one or the other with canines) in the air. Eventually, though, she let them in.

“Noble guests of Barakolpos, how may the house of Kanrabarkad assist you?” a eunuch met them at the door, dressed in a fine vest and breeches. His hair was cut short, as almost all eunuchs were in Bayasabhad, and a gold thread was draped across his brow.

“We were hoping to meet someone,” Jon answered, and introduced himself. “My name is Jon Snow. This is Ygritte. We’re from Westeros.”

“I had heard the Great Fathers were entertaining guests from the Sunset Lands,” the eunuch said with a smile and a small bow. “My name is Ivaylo. It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Is there a woman here with hair like mine?” Ygritte pointed to her bright red locks. “A woman with my hair, from the lands of always winter?”

“Yes, in fact!” Ivaylo replied with a friendly smile. “How delightful. She will no doubt be surprised to meet people from her homeland. This way.”

As Jon and Ygritte followed, he had to ask, “Is she truly from the Lands of Always Winter?”

As far as he knew, no one lived that far north, not even wildlings.

“These people think everything north of the Wall is the land of always winter,” Ygritte answered with a roll of her blue-grey eyes. “I had one fool girl ask me if grass grew where I came from. Another asked me how there was water to drink when everything was frozen.” The spearwife massaged her forehead with her remaining hand. “The worst was the grown man who thought we rode bears. Bears!”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I left mine in the stables.”

Jon chuckled at that and Ygritte did, too, though a little more wanly. To most people, especially in Essos, the Free Folk were like Shrykes or Brindled Men – strange semi-human populations exiting on the edges of the maps and the farthest reaches of the known world, savage, wild and primal. Most everyone in the North, living near them, saw them as a nuisance at best and a threat at worst, but one that was still essentially and understandably human. To the people of Essos, Westeros’ wildings were half-Other, immune to cold and cavorting with bears and wolves. Even _normal Westerosi_ were exotic this far east.

Distance… seemed to naturally breed ignorance.

Jon wondered if it was the same for everyone, everywhere, but then he remembered the Stranger’s people. They could transport others across the known world in an afternoon. Did distance mean anything to them anymore? It seemed not, yet Jon had overhead some of them talk about their home, and by the sound of it, it was months away. Which logically meant it couldn’t be anywhere in the known world. Where, then, did the Stranger’s people truly come from? He didn’t know. Not yet.

“The woman you wish to meet is in the eastern quarters,” Ivaylo said, gesturing for them to follow him out of the courtyard and into the manor itself. “Please. Follow me.”

Large wooden doors opened wide, revealing two more warrior maids of the house of Kanrabarkad. One sported bright red hair of her own, drawn back in a braided tail, and the other hair dark as master’s ink. Both wore silk robes instead of armor, with woven designs in blue and gold, and belts of the same color wrapped around their waist and mid-section above the belly. The dark-haired one also had a hand on her stomach, which Jon guessed to mean she was pregnant. The pair glanced at the newcomers for only a moment before returning to their conversation.

“Those two seem about your age,” Jon observed, speaking to Ivaylo.

“One is my sister. The one with the dark hair,” the eunuch replied. “She is wed to Tyboras Petryos, of the house of Petryos, but she often visits.”

“Forgive me, but I assume that was a good match?”

“Tyboras is fine fellow and treats her well, so I can’t complain.”

“Have you ever…” Jon coughed, uncomfortable at the topic he had been considering broaching.

“Have I ever what?” Ivaylo asked, looking back at the visiting westerosi.

“Nevermind. Nothing,” Jon muttered, but asked anyway, a second later. “What about… is it really alright… not having a family of your own?”

“The Fathers handle that business,” Ivaylo answered, not quite understanding the undercurrent of the question. “They’re also the ones that fight and die when bandits or zorse-riders appear on the horizon. I worry about neither of those things, which is fine by me.”

Jon nodded and dropped the topic like the uncomfortably hot coal it was, at least to him. “I see what you mean. A wise man once told me ‘love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.’”

“This man was a crow, wasn’t he?” Ygritte asked with knowing eyes.

“A great and noble man of the Night’s Watch, yes,” Jon answered, fixing her with a knowing look of his own. Things were different between them whenever the Watch came up. He wasn’t in wildling hands anymore and he didn’t have to hide his feelings in that respect, and frankly, whenever she brought up the Watch, he felt the need to speak up in its defense. It was almost a reflex now: something prompts her to make a jab at the Watch, he counters the jab. It was curious, since it wasn’t even as if he had spent all his life in the brotherhood, becoming particularly enamored with it.

Ygritte frowned. “Well, then. You _and_ this crow _both_ know nothing, Jon Snow. Love is a duty itself.”

“If a man cannot truly love two women, then, so love and duty are naturally incompatible,” he argued back. “One will inevitably conflict with the other.”

“A man who loves a woman can love his children as well, yes?”

“Of course,” Jon answered, and saw where she was going. “But--”

“Love of one and love of another do not have to conflict. You crows love your duty, aye, but you love it at the expense of everything else in life.” She cupped her chin, as if in thought, and smirked, “Mayhaps this is why there are so few of you and so many of us?”

“It was a bad analogy,” he grumbled. “Duty supersedes love. That’s what I meant.”

“I see. Men with no member to one side of me, a man who won’t use his on the other,” Ygritte bemoaned with false grief. “What a world you’ve shown me, Jon Snow.”

“Pardon,” Ivaylo interrupted, “but they only remove our testes, not our members.”

Ygritte scratched idly behind her head. “That’s right… my mistake.”

“Anyway, this woman we’re seeing,” Jon asked, as they entered a columned area two stories tall and open to the air. Small trees grew from pots and ivy grew over the columns and stone walls around them. Silver platters and empty saucers were left on a nearby table, along with the remains of a meal. “How did she come to be here? I thought she was a slave?”

“It would be a slave,” Ygritte agreed. “No way else a Free Folk would be so far from home.”

“The mistress was purchased by our father’s Great Father in Lys,” Ivaylo explained, and gestured ahead to where an old woman lay reclined on a chair, partly covered by a soft wool blanket. She seemed to be watching the celebrations in the tier below but remained cognizant enough to turn her head towards the approaching trio. Unlike Aemon, her eyes were clear even from a distance and dark blue. Her hair, braided and tied together in a common Hyrkoonian fashion, was almost all grey but there were hints of faded red.

“Well, now, look at this one,” she said in a strained voice, coughing into a white kerchief. “Touched with fire, like I used to be.”

Ygritte approached the woman, but slowly and with a little hesitation. “By the gods, you must be older than the Frostfangs.” She touched a hand to her chest. “I’m Ygritte.”

“Six and seventy isn’t that old,” the woman snapped back but laughed. “Not in most of the world, anyway.” She repeated the gesture, touching her hand to her chest. “Nel. Nel of the Free Folk, originally.”

“I’d like to hear your story, old woman,” Ygritte’s words were rude, to Jon at least, but her tone was respectful. She kneeled by the reclining woman’s side. “I… find myself lost and far from home.”

“My story?” Nel leaned back and seemed to consider it for a few seconds. “Ivaylo, that is you, isn’t it?”

“It is, mistress-mother,” the steward answered. “Would you like me to bring some tea?”

“Yes. Bring an extra two cups. That handsome boy over there may want to drink with me.”

Jon’s face fell. “What.”

“And bring some dried meat for the bloody wolf before it eats us all.”

“Of course,” Ivaylo answered with a bow. “I shall be back shortly.”

“Good. Now: my story?” Nel coughed into her kerchief again, a little more violently than before. “There really isn’t much to tell. Gods, I can hardly remember most of it anymore… but I was born south of the Antler River. I assume that’s still there?”

“It is,” Ygritte replied with a smile.

“Isn’t the Antler a huge river?” Jon asked. “Why would it not be there?”

“It was a joke, Jon.”

“Oh.”

Nel stared at them with her dark eyes for a moment before continuing. “My family would often travel south to trade at Eastwatch. There was a brother of the watch there, Henrik, and he was a friend of the commander at the time… some Skagosi with a ridiculous name. Henrik though? He was alright, for a crow. He’d catch smugglers trying to sell us weapons, and then sell the weapons himself. We’d trade for them and then sell them again, further north.”

Nel cackled in the way only a truly old woman could. “He was a handsome devil, too. You know what I mean, don’t you, little one? We curse those black cloaks every time we see one, but some men look good in black.”

“Aye,” Ygritte reluctantly conceded.

Jon mindfully kept silent. Glancing down at Ghost, he saw the pony-sized direwolf had already found a comfortable spot to lie down, his back to a bare ivy-less wall.

“Well,” Nel continued with a less pleasant part of her story. “We were down south near Eastwatch waiting for Henrik to show up when these riders came on us. We could tell just by the way they dressed they weren’t from anywhere good. Tyroshi, I later learned. They killed my poor pa…” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, but she only paused for a moment to remember. “And tied up the rest of us. Wasn’t much of a fight. They had steel and they knew how to use it. Pa had a sword, not even that good a sword I realized later on, and the only thing he could cut with it was wood. Still, he tried. My ma and my brothers were all taken to a ship off the coast, and they took us south.”

“You’re probably imagining a hold full of captured free folk, but the truth is there were only nine of us. Mostly they were trading in hardwood… to this day, I suspect they made one or two passes up the coast, grabbing anyone who stood out but not putting much more effort into it than that. They weren’t slavers, just sailors from slaver cities looking to make some extra gold.”

“They still do that,” Ygritte hissed. “Only thing worse than crows is slavers.”

Jon, with some effort, said nothing at that little dig. Privately, though, he doubted the women abducted south of the wall and turned into unwilling wildling wives saw their lot as anything better than being a slave. While he’d never met one, there were tales he’d heard at Castle Black of the occasional northwoman who managed to escape her captors. One had even been an Umber girl, many years ago, and the Umbers had rewarded the Watch for bringing her home with a thousand steel arrowheads and two large chests of furs. The difference between that sort of sexual slavery and what Nel described wasn’t so deep a chasm… but that was just a northern bastard’s opinion and one he kept to himself.

“After what felt like half a year at sea, they set in on Tyrosh, and I saw the city…” Nel recalled and seemed thoughtful, cupping her chin with her hand. “For a night and a day. I never got past the docks. Right then and there, they sold off my brothers and my ma. Never saw them again. As for me, I had red hair that I got from my pa. There was a man from Lys on the docks, buying slaves and re-selling them. He bought me, and a bunch of other girls, and one very pretty young boy, and then it was right back to sea.”

“Do you ever think about them?” Ygritte asked, still kneeling by her side. “Your brothers? Your mother?” _Your people?_

“And what could I do, if I knew?” Nel asked and shook her head. “I’m sure they thought the same. We all died that morning, on the dock. I don’t need to know if my little brother Gon died rowing some damn galley or if he ended up a cook or a servant. _Gone is gone_ , young lady. Gone is gone.”

Ygritte bowed her head, but soon nodded. “I see what you mean.”

Nel relaxed back into her chair, glancing back past Jon to see Ivaylo returning with a table and a silver teacup. “Now where was I? Oh yes. Lys. Lys the Lovely, they call it.” She snorted. “Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about freezing my buttocks off when I was there. Warmest place I’d ever lived. The man who bought me in Tyrosh took me and the others to a main square. You know what’s funny, now? That little boy got sold first. Right off. He was maybe up there with us for about two minutes. That’s Lys for you.”

She shook her head. “Well, anyway, of course I ended up sold to a Pillow House. I’d made friends with a girl on the boat and lucky-for-me she got sent to the same house, so at least I had one friend there to start with. Ysmilla was her name. But there I was, some ‘wildling’ girl in Lys. They taught me the basics of the Seven Sighs, though I always hated the third one, but what they really wanted me to do was recreate the ‘wildling experience’ for the clients.”

“Wait,” Jon interrupted. “The third one?”

Nel glanced at him with a smile and a wink. “The butt, young man.”

“By the old gods and the new, why did I have to ask?” Jon shuddered and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Oh ho ho ho!” Nel cackled again, even as Ivaylo handed her a cup of tea in a porcelain cup. “The Watch’s standards must have changed since my day, if you’re their like now! But yes. I learned to do all that and more, but mostly they wanted me to dress up in furs and growl and threaten men and do that whole mummer’s show. Act like a savage beast. Pretend you’re going to hurt them. I can’t say it was flattering, but honestly there were many who had it much worse, and again what choice did I have? So I became their wildling.”

Ygritte’s shoulders were tense with anger and humiliation, Jon could see, but Nel reached over and patted her gently on the shoulder. Eventually, she relaxed somewhat.

“We do what we have to… to survive,” the old woman summed it all up rather succinctly. “I was there for four years when I met Hyrkan. He was there representing his family and he saw me through a window.” She smiled and seemed wistful. “I remember it well. Gods, he was so young then. I guess we both were! Oh ho ho ho! He came to visit me and actually asked me what my people were really like. Oh, he still left me sore by morning, but at least he was interesting… and he was interested in me, too.”

“When the time came to leave, he asked to buy me,” she paused at this, and turned to them. “Have some tea. Go ahead. It isn’t poison. Now, you may have noticed, but there are no slaves in Bayasabhad. So, it isn’t a surprise that he freed me when we entered the city. He then asked if I wanted to leave or if I wanted to stay. I stayed.”

“Was he good to you?” Ygritte asked, quietly.

“I was one of sixteen wives he had over his lifetime,” Nel answered, taking a sip of tea. “The man was a total beast. Sometimes it took three or four of us to satiate him.”

“Ugh!”

“Oh? You meant was he a good man? That sort of thing?” Nel asked with another crooked smile, rather amused by Jon’s discomfort. “He never struck me, which I consider a good thing because I like having teeth. He mostly treated all his wives equally, too, which annoyed me at the time, but later I came to think it wise. I’d say… yes, he was good to me, and I was happy. Only time I wasn’t when was they cut my boy…”

Nel sighed and took another sip of tea. “I hated that, but the damn fool never wanted to practice with a blade or a bow. He was happy with his letters and that’s where it gets you here.”

“He isn’t you, is it?” Jon asked Ivaylo. “You don’t look like--”

“My boy is probably your father’s age,” Nel interrupted. “How old do you think I was when I pushed him out between my legs?”

Jon turned away in embarrassment. “Yes. Of course. Sorry. Ugh.”

“My boy’s a priest, now. An honor, or so they say. My daughter was a warrior of the second-rank,” she explained, and saw a flash of confusion on their faces. “That’s one better than third-rank.”

Ygritte nodded seriously. “I see. That makes sense…”

“Of course it makes sense,” Jon muttered to himself.

“She married one of her cousins and gave me two granddaughters. You probably passed by one of them in the hall. They say I’ll be a great-grandmother soon. Fancy that. Living long enough to see your great-grandchild born,” Nel made a thoughtful murmur and sipped her tea again. “I can’t complain about that.”

“Do you think any of us have traveled further than you have?” Ygritte asked, standing up now that the tale was told.

“ _Mmm_. Perhaps. Some unfortunate may have ended up in Asshai,” Nel reasoned, but shook her head in the negative. “I’ve never heard of it, though. That just leaves you and me, little Ygritte, and I doubt you’re going to stop here like I have.”

“Aye,” Ygritte replied, pensive. “But like you, my travels are not entirely of my own wishing, and honestly, I worry about where I may end up next. And I worry for our people. The old enemy is rising in the north.”

Nel stared hard at her, searing for meaning. “The old enemy… you don’t mean?”

“The white shadows.”

Silent, Jon half expected the old woman to cackle again and quip about being on the other side of the world, or being too old to worry about it, or something like that. Instead she put down her teacup.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked and spared Jon a more serious look as well. “The young crow, too?”

“I’m eventually headed for the Five Forts. They have a Watch there.”

“Jon’s seen the wights,” Ygritte added. “What he doesn’t see is that all men need to get south of the Wall, Free Folk included.”

“I’m sure something can be worked out with Robb if your people kneel,” Jon said, and just as expected, came the response:

“Free Folk don’t kneel!” except it was two women telling him that instead of just one.

“Thank you for reminding me,” Jon answered in as humorless a tone as he could manage.

“Mance Rayder is the new King-Beyond-the-Wall,” Ygritte said, ignoring him. “He has the horn of Joramun. This time, we will get through the Wall.”

“If this Mance of yours uses the horn, he’s a fool,” Nel grumbled and fell back with a defeated groan. “If the Wall comes down, it won’t matter how far south you run. In fact, I hope to the Gods he doesn’t have it at all. What point is there saving the Free Folk if you doom the world in the process? But this… what news to bring to an old woman on her death bed?”

“You’re hardly on your death bed,” Ivaylo remarked, and winced when she smacked him atop the head.

“Quiet, you. I’m close enough!”

“Yes, mistress-mother.”

“There is a Watch to the far east, at the Forts,” the old woman mused, closing her eyes as she thought. “When the time comes, many boys here can’t accept losing their… independence. If a boy fails the trials, he is given the choice, to either submit to the priests and alchemists, or to serve honorably and intact at the Forts.”

She frowned and turned to Jon. “But what help can they be at your Wall?”

“I have been told that there is a land bridge of some sort between Westeros and Essos, far to the east,” Jon answered, resting his hand on the pommel of Longclaw. “I don’t think we can help each other too much, but we can at least warn them and maybe coordinate. I’ll be able to return to the Wall before anything happens. We have… a way home that isn’t too inconvenient.”

“You should speak with my son-in-law,” Nel told him, then. “He’s yet another creatively-named Hyrkan. His sire lacked wits, but the son is now head of his family and accounted mighty among the Great Fathers. He’s a patron and friend of the Forts, sending supplies and men there via Yi-Ti.”

“That may be useful,” Jon agreed. The Stranger’s people had already made introductions and some arrangements, but it would be nice to contribute and show he wasn’t helpless without them. “What is his name?”

“Hyrkan Anthymoros,” Nel said, and looked to the young westerosi. “He will help you. You may even consider mentioning the Others. At the least, it will get his blood running hot.” She reached out and took Ygritte’s hand. “I wish you luck. If what you say is true, you will need it.”

The drums had finished beating and the celebrations were winding down by the time Jon and Ygritte made their way through the tight streets back to Barakolpos’ estate. The fires still burned in a multitude of colors about the city, but the sun was fully set, and the latest noble Great Father had been presented and acclaimed by his peers. They day was winding down and there was much on both their minds.

Back at the manor, the Stranger was waiting for them, hands in his pants pockets.

“Welcome back,” he greeted them, casually as always.

Ygritte tensed, just hearing his voice, but she always did that. For all she had come to pester the Stranger and his people, she was still quite clearly afraid of them. Jon couldn’t even say he was too different. He had seen what they were capable of when they wanted to do violence. The biggest difference was that Jon knew he was of some value to the Stranger and his people – though he didn’t entirely understand why – while Ygritte knew she only lived at their sufferance and forbearance.

“Lord John,” Jon greeted the man with a small bow. Apparently, ‘John’ was a rather common name among the Stranger’s people, and the Stranger’s name was almost identical to Jon’s own. A strange coincidence, the man had once said.

Ygritte just grunted.

“Unless you have some plans tonight, I’d like a word,” The Stranger asked, oh so politely, “I also have some people you need to meet.”

“That’s fine,” Jon replied, and glanced quickly at Ygritte.

“Crow business, I guess,” she said, and shrugged. “I think I’ll go find the kitchens, maybe see if I can get more of those honey-filled things.”

“She really doesn’t like you,” Jon said, once the spearwife was gone from the courtyard and out of hearing.

“I’d be surprised if she did. I shot off her hand and killed her companions.” John the Stranger motioned for Jon the Bastard to follow. Together, they headed to another part of the estate, much like the one Jon had just visited.

“I think it’s less that you shot her hand off and more that you just dismiss her.”

“Ah.”

“That’s it?”

“What else is there to say?” the Stranger asked. “I’m dismissive of her because she doesn’t matter much. How’s Ghost, by the way?”

Jon blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Fine. He’s eating well.”

“And the warging?”

“Oh, you mean _that_.” Jon looked over at the direwolf, who had been following quietly, his eyes catching the light in the falling darkness. Many were terrified of the giant wolf, but to Jon, he was just Ghost: a companion and a friend. The revelation that he and all his siblings were wargs had been a surprise, but Jon had quickly seen the sense of it. The wolf dreams made more sense now.

“I’ve been practicing,” he replied. “Ghost doesn’t mind it anymore, not unless I switch it on and off too rapidly. He doesn’t like that. Honestly, I don’t like it either. Are you sure some wargs can control an animal and their own body at the same time?”

“If the bond is close enough,” the Stranger assured him. “Or that’s what we’ve been told. Canines form the closest of all of these bonds and you are bonded with your wolf in a way most wargs are not. Most just find or capture a wild animal. ‘Practice makes perfect.’ That’s a saying my people have.”

“I’ll keep practicing, like I promised,” Jon said, as the two entered a trophy room. The walls were covered in shields and skulls, most of them with an almost inhuman shape. Jon knew these to be Jogos Nhai skulls… the zorse riders somehow changed the shapes of their skulls in infancy, making them pointed. He also knew there was a deep enmity between the Jogos and… well… everyone and everything that was not Jogos Nhai. That included the surviving remnant of Hyrkoon, much of which had been destroyed over the millennia in part by those same zorse-riding nomads.

The skulls, then, were the skulls of horse and zorse lords killed by this family over the ages.

Along with an assortment of other… _things_.

“I’ve read that Hyrkoon sacrificed captured enemies,” Jon recalled.

“That they do.” John shrugged. “That’s a brindled man, over there, with the bronze crescent behind it. That one with a lion skull on top was probably some kind of mountain bandit. I can’t read it from here, but there’s a little plaque under each one. The accurate recordkeeping is a nice touch.”

“Human sacrifice isn’t a problem for you?”

“Depends on the sacrifice.”

“Yet slavery is a problem.”

“Slavery is a more _systemic_ problem,” the Stranger explained. “And it isn’t like they’re killing ten thousand people in one go to celebrate building a new temple. The sacrifices are mostly just a religious excuse to take trophies. We can constructively redirect that energy, in time. Honestly, the eunuch situation is more vexing. What is it _with_ this continent and eunuchs?”

“You know, I wondered the same thing.”

The two men walked in silence down a flight of wooden stairs and into yet another trophy chamber. This one, however, had more than just skulls… though it still had skulls. There were antiques and weapons and other curiosities also on display and in storage. A large stand in the middle of the circular room stood out. There was some sort of narrow item on it, covered by a sheet.

There were also a trio of people waiting for them in that room.

“Jon Snow. We meet again!” a big man greeted them with a bellow. “Welcome!”

The first, this man, was their host, Nykolas Barakolpos, who happened to be one of the few in the city familiar with the Stranger’s people and what they were capable of. He was a Great Father of Bayasabhad, but a younger one in his mid-forties. Like all the Great Fathers (and regular ones) he was a mountain of man that reminded Jon of the stories his father had spoken of King Robert in his heyday as the Demon of the Trident.

Nykolas was easily six and a half feet tall, with a pure white beard that fanned out from his jaw like a spade. His eyes were an icy grey and though his face was young enough to have few lines, a trio of scars did cross over his right eyebrow, removing parts of the eyebrow itself. An elaborate tattoo of geometric patterns in blue ink played out over half of his face, etched into his skin when he officially ascended to become a Great Father. His head was clean-shaven. The last time Jon had seen him, the man had worn a robe, but now he wore armor much like that worn by his warrior daughters and wives, finely made, protecting his lower legs and his arms from shoulder to hands. The white fur of what seemed to be a polar bear – very far from home, that animal – was further draped over his shoulders. To Jon’s Westerosi eyes, he was chronically under-armored where it mattered… but like his women, he probably relied on a large shield to compensate. Given the size of the man, it would be a damn big shield, too. Jon had seen the swords that the patriarchs of the city used in war. Back home, their arming swords would be called greatswords.

“Lord Nykolas,” Jon returned the greeting, in the westerosi fashion.

“Hello there, we haven’t met before,” the second greeting came from a woman, and not a local. Her accent was the same as the Stranger’s. Bold as you please, she walked up to Jon and took his hand, giving it a firm and friendly shake. She had chestnut brown hair secured by a clip behind her head and hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle mischievously. Her grip was surprisingly strong, and she wore local casual clothes in the form of form-fitting breeches and a vest with a black fur trim. Unlike Ygritte and himself, or John for that matter, she looked like she had actually been mingling socially with the locals of Bayasabhad.

“This is our expedition’s junior chief archaeologist,” John the Stranger explained, gesturing with his hand to the slim and normal-sized young woman. She looked to be in her twenties, but the Stranger’s people all looked younger than they actually were.

“My name’s Lara,” the woman said with a bright smile and stepped back. “I’ve heard a lot about you Jon. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve requisitioned you for a little project of mine.”

“A project?” Jon wondered. Him? Besides the warging?

“It’ll be fun and very safe. No chance of shroud-fuckery, trust me.” She pursed her lips and turned to John the stranger. “Don’t look at me like that, John. We cleared the place out! It _seriously_ is safe this time.”

“This time?” Jon asked, growing suspicious. “And what’s shroud-fuckery?”

“ _That_ is a good question!” Lara agreed, somehow, and tapped him on the chest. “And the _answer_ will depend on what happens with our little test.”

She pointedly ignored the ‘this time’ question, too, he noticed.

“No pressure, lad,” the last new face said, pulling back a hood to reveal an older man with coarse features, a thick neck and a strong square jaw. The man was not particularly tall, and his voice and appearance told Jon he was undoubtably westerosi, but what was most surprising was that he seemed to be wearing a maester’s robes and a chain of more links than Jon could count. Jon shook his hand and felt a ring, one that almost looked like it had the smoky swirls of valyrian steel.

“Marwyn,” the man told him, “My name’s Marwyn.”

“An arch-maester of the Citadel,” John added.

Marwyn frowned at that and at the Stranger. “Not the title I’m proudest of, honestly.”

Jon held up his hands in confusion. The Stranger’s ‘archaeologist’ (whatever that was) was one thing, but this…?

“What’s an arch-maester doing way out here?” Jon asked, eyes darting between the assembled people and the obscured item on the table. “How can you even be here?”

“Our mutual friends were kind enough to give me a ride,” Marwyn explained, scratching the stubble around his jaw with a grin. “Tell me, have they actually shown you how they do it, or do they sedate you?”

“Sedation,” John answered on Jon’s behalf.

“Pity,” Marwyn mused. “But something to look forward to when your eyes have been opened a little wider.”

“If it is any consolation, Jon Snow, they only move me around when I’m asleep, too,” Nykolas announced with a booming laugh. “A small price to pay!”

“I – I don’t understand,” Jon growled, growing annoyed at how much seemed to be going over his head and how unclear things were. “If you all could just explain what I’m doing here…?”

“Lara requested your participation in an expedition of hers,” the Stranger explained, placing a calming hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You and one other. Marwyn here is also coming along. After we finish up, we will take him back to Oldtown and you and I will continue on to deal with our Five Forts.”

“But what… what could I help with?” Jon asked, and turned again to the pedestal in the center of the room. Something there almost seemed to be calling to him. It went beyond simple curiosity. It was like a gnawing in the pit of his stomach… a hunger almost.

Lara noticed his interest and walked over to the pedestal. “Let me show you what we mean, exactly.”

Without any real flourish or ado, she pulled the fabric off the item. Beneath it was some sort of black sculpture, narrow and pointed. Jon walked towards it, fascinated. It seemed to be twisted, but within the twists he could make out an intricate etching like that of a poisonous vine or creeper. The glossy material caught the light in a way that was both mesmerizing and a little off-putting. It seemed to faintly reflect lights that weren’t actually in the room.

“This is a glass candle,” Lara said, leaning in from the side to explain. “A valyrian candle, to be specific. Solid obsidian. We want you to light it.”

“You want me to light it?” Jon asked, and the foreign woman nodded. “Is that all?”

“That’s all… for now,” she answered and looked at him askance. “You sure you can light it? You sound pretty confident.”

“It’s a candle. How hard is it to light a candle?” Jon peered closer at the dragonglass, narrowed his eyes, and slowly turned around. “Did you know this candle doesn’t have a wick?”

The four luminaries stood and blinked dumbly at him for a solid few seconds.

“It’s true,” Nykolas finally admitted. “I don’t know how you can light it myself. No wick.”

“If it had a wick than you wouldn’t need magic, you could just use fire,” Lara explained. “Which isn’t magic. It’s chemistry. Except wildfire. I think there’s some magic in that chemistry.”

“Lighting one has nothing to do with fire and everything to do with blood,” Marwyn added, looking and sounding more like a maester and less like a street-brawler in masester’s robes. “But if it was just a matter of blood, anyone could do it. The magic must be within you. In your very essence. I am the only man… or woman… here to have lit a glass candle, and it was no easy task, not like it should be for one of The Blood.”

“I don’t know magic,” Jon stated, deadpan. “Can’t you find a warlock or something to do it?”

“You’re a warg, Jon,” the Stranger finally said. “Just try and light it. Humor us.”

Jon Snow was not terribly amused. He was neither a mage nor a mummer, and this smelled like a farce. Yes, he was apparently a warg, but so what? Why did they want this thing lit, anyway? What was the point? Still… an Arch-Maester, a Patriarch of Hyrkoon, an intimating woman from gods-knows-where and the Stranger who killed at will were all asking him to do it. If it could sort things out so he could go back to doing things that made sense, then he figured he could at least try.

“Fine. I’ll try.”

The four thanked him almost in unison and quickly retreated to the far corners of the room to watch and wait. Jon tried to ignore them. Instead, he paced around the pedestal and the candle. With fewer distractions on his mind, he could admit he still felt a strange attraction to it just like before. It was odd.

No maester, Jon was also no fool, and despite Ygritte’s favorite phrase he knew quite a few things. Given what the others had said, especially Marwyn, it was clear what he needed to do here. _Probably_. Inspecting the candle’s tip, where there was no wick to burn, Jon confirmed instead that the edge was razor-sharp.

Seemed straightforward.

Carefully, he ran a finger along the edge and let it cut.

Hot blood trickled out, first a drop, and then a bit more just to be on the safe side. It didn’t just pool on the tip of the candle, either. The obsidian candle seemed to drink it up, sucking it out of the cut and letting it flow down through the grooves. Red blood ran down through the spiral of the candle until it reached the base and suddenly caught flame. This was no pale orange flame, either, but a weird blue glow that flickered and ran back up the spiral before concentrating in the tip. Once there, it burned hotly and queerly, difficult to look at or into, casting strange shades and shadows in the room.

“Gods! He did it so easily!” Marwyn exclaimed, his eyes alight with curiosity and revelation. “Just like the other one, right?”

“That’s what Lin says,” Lara replied, smiling triumphantly. “She lit it first-try, too. Just like this one.”

“And here I was thinking we might have to execute a couple dozen bandits to do the job,” Nykolas muttered darkly. “What am I going to do with the extra bandits?”

Jon stared at the huge man. “You can’t mean--”

“A joke, Jon Snow!” Nykolas bellowed with a laugh. “A joke! As if I have a cellar full of bandits in chains, just in case I need them for a blood sacrifice! Ridiculous. Everyone knows fresh is always better!”

“…”

“That was also a joke, Jon Snow. …Maybe.”

“This is exactly what we hoped,” John the Stranger said, before Jon could wonder more about his host’s basement. “A perfect reaction, totally different from our experiments in Lys or Volantis. There’s clearly another component at work. But this site of yours better be as safe as you’re telling us, Croft.”

“Trust me, I’ll look after them as if they were my own flesh and blood,” Lara assured him, and placed an arm around Jon’s shoulders to pull him close. “Better than my own flesh and blood, even! We Crofts have been doing this for generations, except for the hundred years we went into government. Those don’t count. There was nothing else to do on Unity anyway.”

“What?” Jon asked, but just as quickly shook his head. “Actually, nevermind that. You said _someone else_ did this?”

“That’s right!” Lara leaned in a little closer, eliciting a blush from the man of the Watch. “We’ll introduce you two tomorrow, now that we’re sure of a few things.”

“Ah, yes,” Nykolas muttered, grinning to himself. “It will be a pleasure to finally meet the lovely Daenerys Targaryen. I look forward to it.”

Jon blinked, momentarily without words.

Daenerys … _Targaryen?_

. . .

 


	6. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters:  
> (14) Daenerys I (8.7k)

. . .

(14) Daenerys I

. . .

The small khalassar’s journey from Qarth was radically different from their journey to it, for all that it passed over the familiar desolation of the Red Waste. On a cool, cloudy day, they took the not-so-creatively named Sand Road ran north of the city, back out the very triple-gates they had once entered through. For a time, Daenerys and her people were retracing old steps, right up until the road split with one well-traveled fork turning slightly east and the other, less well traveled, slightly west.

These were no dragon roads of ancient Valyria, level and unnaturally straight and smooth, but a more mundane path of dark stones that flanked the road to left and right with whitish-grey stones in-between. These roads, it was said, had been built by the ancient Qaathi, and they maintained them still, including the posting of small markers for every Qartheen league (exactly 10,000 feet, versus the more common Valyrian league, which was 14,000 feet).

Just as Daenerys found herself with more time to admire the roads and the land, so the trip itself was more comfortable for her people. There were no bodies left on the side of the road this time, no abandoned old men and weeping women left to the red wolves and the jackals. Her people ate and drank every morning and every night, and they did so because their _khaleesi_ at last had the means to care for them as they deserved.

 _This time_ , Daenerys Targaryen traveled in a secure and well provisioned convoy, alongside a group of other merchants who opted to take the trip with her. Ox-drawn carts pulled ample provisions for the journey, gathered from marketplaces and dockyard wholesalers. There was fodder for beasts, shaped wood for repairs, and all the things her people needed for survival besides: bread, both barley and wheat, meat in the form of dried fish and salted mutton common to this part of Essos, good cheese, vegetables, especially legumes (chickpeas, lentils, soybeans), oil of course, and salt and vinegar… and wine.

They had wagons of provisions, and now, men whose job it was to oversee them and to ensure that no man, woman or child went hungry or thirsty. As per Lady Lin’s insistence, these men-of-numbers kept records in duplicate form, withdrawals and receipts, to ensure no theft or misuse of the dragon’s provisions. It was a system that Jorah had remarked upon as being quite clever, as in his experience, corruption among even a small army’s quartermasters was quite common.

They were no army, in truth, but as Lady Lin had explained, it was wise for a young King or Queen to understand numbers and management. The Usurper had driven the Seven Kingdoms into bankruptcy, and upon being told this, Dany had sworn to do just the opposite and save it from mismanagement. Spurred by her advisor, Daenerys herself took time to look over the written reports and oversee the system they had put in place.

The first night she had done so, Daenerys recalled being quite excited and feeling very much like Aegon himself must have when he moved his troops across Westeros to build the Seven Kingdoms. After several nights, however, the numbers had begun to run together in her head. She understood how important it was that a horse could carry roughly 200 pounds such and such a distance, but that it also needed to eat 20 pounds of fodder a day. She understood how important it was that every person, dependent on age and weight, needed to eat so much of this or that, and drink as well, but numbers… honestly, numbers did not quite come as easily to her as letters.

“You don’t need to enjoy it. You only need to be familiar with it, and to understand it, if needs be,” Lady Lin had insisted one night, as they sat amid pillows in Daenerys’ comfortable tent, attended by Irri and Jhiqui. “Among my people, literacy is universal, from the highest to the lowest, from the rich to the poor, and knowledge of mathematical principles is essential to good governance. A leader with no understanding of deductive and inductive reasoning is one unworthy to rule, regardless of blood.”

Daenerys rarely felt the need to indulge others, not like when she was younger, not like before Drogo, but Lady Lin was the greatest font of wisdom in her life. She was wise and learned, and kind; she had saved many lives, and now some of those she had saved, like Doreah, were going to be mothers and fathers themselves. When she spoke praise, Dany felt as if it were truly genuine, and not just flattery, for Lin only really praised those who accomplished something.

This, though the Yitish woman was herself a mystery in many ways…

No doubt Viserys would have grown sick of the lecturing and either demanded she begone… or sleep with him in exchange for his forbearance. Daenerys was resolved to be better: to be a better person and to be a better leader. She would listen and she would learn, even if it was not as entertaining as other pursuits.

Happily, the work never lasted too long into the night, and one particularly dark night Lin smiled and took them outside: Daenerys, Irri and Jhiqui all. This was a time Dany always looked forward to. If they worked hard, then Lady Lin never failed to reward them with some fascinating tale or little bit of magic, or strange foreign treat, though she always assured them it was no magic.

That night, Lady Lin gifted them with sheets of fine, firm paper, and taught them to fold them into shapes: little horses and cranes, but most delightful of all, she taught them how to make paper birds that could glide through the air. As night grew dark around them and the full moon lit up the sky, Lin then showed them how to make a lantern with paper, and by attaching a small metal cup with a flame, cause the lanterns to rise into the sky.

Daenerys and Irri made theirs, though Jhiqui became apprehensive when Lin told them what it would do. Soon, though, they had three made, and launched them skywards, much to the surprise and astonishment of many of the merchant convoy. Others, who had been to Yi Ti during festivals, no doubt took advantage of the moment to lecture their less well traveled and knowledgeable fellows and servants.

“With a larger lantern and a larger fire, could one fly?” Daenerys wondered aloud, watching the flying lanterns rise, to add their candle-light to the starry sky. It would be a pale imitation of dragon-flight, of course… but it would have some benefits as well.

“One could,” Lady Lin replied, pleased by the question. “Paper would not be sufficient, however. A man and a basket weigh too much.”

“And a more potent flame would be needed,” Daenerys reasoned. Lady Lin had explained that hot air lifted itself and could carry things with it, both in theory and in practice. “Wildfire, maybe? Something that burns hotly but weighs little.”

“To ride the air as one rides a horse?” Jhiqui asked, narrowing her almond eyes at the floating lanterns suspiciously. “Such a steed is not meant for men. It is known.”

“My ancestors flew,” Daenerys reminded her.

“For normal men,” Jhiqui amended herself. “Khaleesi. You and yours are not normal men.”

It was true and being reminded of it swelled her chest with pride, but there was a tiny sting to it as well. She was the daughter of Aerys and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, but she was also a human being and a woman, with all the needs of a woman and a human being. She did not and would not reject her birthright, but of late, it came with a certain isolation and loneliness. It was a feeling easy to ignore during the day when she kept busy, but at night… at night, in the silks of her tent, it weighed on her spirit, and Irri was no replacement for her Sun and Stars.

The truth was, that since leaving Qarth and setting upon the vast emptiness of the Red Waste, the loneliness had only grown worse. It didn’t help that even her handmaids seemed to be distancing themselves from her. They served her ably - even a little slavishly Dany could admit in the privacy of her own head - but she couldn’t call them her friends like they had once been, under the protection of Khal Drogo. Becoming the Mother of Dragons had cemented it.

To them, to _many_ , she was something… more than human… an object of worship almost. Yet what statue of a goddess yearned for warm arms to hold her at night or companions to laugh with? Did being special just mean being alone?

“Not normal men,” Daenerys repeated, little more than a whisper.

“Being normal is a little overrated, anyway,” Lin commented, her eyes cast upwards. “And you’d be surprised what humans are capable of. One day… flying through the air may be more common than riding a horse.”

Irri laughed at what she assumed to be a joke, and Jhiqui just shook her head, insisting it was nonsense. Yet Lady Lin seemed quite sure. Daenerys, for her part, kept quiet and watched the three.

They were her closest female companions, and of them, she found she could only truly call Lady Lin her friend. The wise woman did not bow or scrape, and though she was respectful enough, she could and often would correct Dany when she was wrong about something. She seemed to fear neither wroth nor lack of station. As inscrutable as she could often be, there was also much that was admirable about her. Yet she also kept herself aloof in many ways, often eating by herself and even turning away servants. Her past and her background were shrouded in mystery, a fact Daenerys often overlooked but never entirely forgot.

“Time for me to turn in for the night,” Lady Lin finally said, putting up with Irri and Jhiqui with a motherly amusement. “I’ll see you girls tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, my Lady.”

“Yes.”

“Good-night,” Daenerys remembered the phrase Lady Lin herself used, from time to time. She soon left, as was her way, on her own time and at her own accord. Irri and Jhiqui remained, as they always did, for Daenerys to dismiss them. To them, she would always be _khaleesi_ , and it would always be their honor to be at her beck and call. Dany appreciated their devotion and love, but… but sometimes she did wish it was… something else.

“Jhiqui,” she said softly, as they lounged on blankets outside her tent.

“Yes, Khaleesi?” Jhiqui was the more inquisitive of her handmaids, though also the more dogmatic. She enjoyed rumor and gossip more than Irri, and she was more prone to flirting with men, taking advantage of her more curvy physique. She would know certain things. And if she did not, then Doreah would, though Dany’s Lysene handmaid was indisposed at the moment with her pregnancy.

“Has Lady Lin taken anyone to her tent?” Dany asked, quietly and with a little hesitation. It felt a bit wrong to pry, but it was just curiosity, she told herself. “Do you know?”

“It is known that she has not,” Jhiqui answered, and sounded quite sure of herself. “Jhogo did offer himself several days ago, but she rebuffed him, as she has others.”

Jhogo was the first of her bloodriders to pledge themselves to her, and he bore the silver-handled whip from her wedding. He was a handsome young man, though a bit severe and narrow-minded at times.

“Do you think she has someone special at home?” Dany asked aloud. It would explain some things.

“You should ask her, Khaleesi,” Irri suggested. “Her ways are strange, but she is still a woman.”

“A woman with no man,” Jhiqui added. “And older than we. It is strange she has no children and no husband at three and thirty.”

“She _cannot_ be three and thirty,” Irri argued. “I need only my eyes to tell me that. Two and twenty I would believe.”

“I heard it.”

“And I doubt it. Where did you hear it?”

The two went on for a time while Daenerys listened. Just asking made sense… but it was embarrassing trying to imagine that conversation. Perhaps in the future, if it somehow came up, or if she found a way to broach the topic that was not like to cause her face to burn off in shame. Any other woman, yes, she would just ask, but not this one.

“It is time for bed,” she declared, and Irri and Jhiqui quickly bowed their heads. “Irri. You will be with me tonight.”

“Yes, Khaleesi.”

“As you wish, Khaleesi.”

That night, as they retired to their tents, Dany pulled Irri into a closer embrace to keep out the desert chill. Using a handmaiden as a bedwarmer was hardly uncommon, and Irri did not snore as Jhiqui and Doreah occasionally did.

Holding her tight, Daenerys slipped off into sleep, images of snow-capped mountains, a pack of waiting wolves, and mysterious Strangers forming a half-remembered dream. Above it all, a strange shape cast a long, smooth shadow, like an arrowhead across the land, and everywhere she went, and in everything she saw, a three-eyed raven followed her.

. . .

The journey continued and Daenerys rode every day on horseback, as befitting her status as _khaleesi_ (and eschewing a noble lady’s wheel-house), but she was one of the very few. Many and more rode mules or especially camels, neither of which had been affected by the Dothraki Horse Plague. Leading the little _khalassar_ , and the merchants who traveled with it, Dany had assumed a leadership role by both necessity and choice.

She dealt with disputes when they arose and she decided, with the help of her advisors, when and where to stop for the day and make camp. Jorah and her bloodriders were a great aid in this, giving her rule the muscle and experience it needed, even as her guard filled with young men and boys in training who had survived the previous year’s hardships. It was a small realm to rule, but rule she felt she did. In time, Daenerys was certain that the experience would prove valuable. She had never had the education or experiences of a noble lady of her rank, tailored to raising up a woman who could adequately run a household. From the very beginning, then, she was at a disadvantage. Lady Lin’s revealing just how poor her education in numbers had been was only an example of the handicaps she had to overcome.

It would not be enough to rule… she would have to rule well. She would never lead a _khalassar_ into battle, except perhaps someday via dragonback, so it was imperative she excel in all other fields to compensate.

This was all good practice for when that time came.

“The paperwork in question, your Grace.” Cirea, one of Lady Lin’s trained ‘secretaries’ rose alongside Daenerys and offered a book of notes. This book was marked with indexes to indicate dates, making things easier to find.

Cirea was a slave-girl, literate and intelligent, purchased in Qarth specifically for this work. Like most Qartheen, enslaved or otherwise, she had milk-white skin and dark hair, and though her eyesight was poor (one reason she was for sale at all), Lady Lin had fashioned a metal frame to hold lenses up in front of her eyes, enabling her to see. These ‘glasses’ using hand-held frames were apparently known among the Maesters of Westeros, and the Valyrians knew to make and wear them as well, having invented the science. The Valyrians, however, preferred carved horn over metal rims. Lady Lin had in her possession one of these artifacts, but with darkened lenses, to keep out the sun. How clever the Ancients had been! And _especially_ her ancestors!

“Thank you, Cirea,” Daenerys said, and perused the book even as she rode, directing the horse with her thighs and small motions of the stirrups. “I see the section right here. Sir, is this not your signature?”

She held up the book and pointed to one of the entries.

“Ah. Yes. It is,” the merchant, one Boros Beno Omaxis, was a trader in silks and silver. Like most Qartheen men, he was able to cry at will, and was doing so now. “But there was a spill, noble lady, fair Khaleesi. Surely such accidents cannot be held against us?”

“You signed for your rations, you received your rations, and then you lost your rations… but you failed to report losing them, making it impossible to tell if your version of events occurred, ten leagues behind us?” Daenerys asked, with a single arched eyebrow.

“We had an agreement…”

“We had a contract, and my people will fulfill it to the letter,” Dany said, cutting the weeping man off. “Next time you lose your rations, come to us immediately to report it. I shouldn’t have to remind you that these are the terms you agreed to when you came with us.”

The merchant’s tears evaporated as quickly as they appeared, and he frowned... frowned, but bowed his head. “We will be more careful in the future, then.”

Dany dismissed the man with a wave of her hand. “I hope you will be.”

She had been warned about this: that many of the merchants would test her and see if they could take some advantage of the caravan. She had originally planned to travel to Bayasabhad alone with her _khalassar_ , but when word got out of her journey, others had approached her about making the trip together for mutual protection. Virtually all were merchants looking to take advantage of her stockpiling food, fodder, water and wine for the trip. In exchange, they gave her coin to help replenish her coffers.

Many preferred dealings with her to dealing with another merchant caravaneer, perhaps thinking she was less savvy and cared less about making a profit from the trip than just getting to her destination intact. Indeed, she _did_ care more about just getting where she was going, but in the many leagues they had to travel, that did not mean she would be lax, idle, or unconcerned about being taken advantage of. Lady Lin had a phrase: “a tight ship.”

Dany had spent many years in the Free Cities and had crossed the stormy Narrow Sea a hundred times. She understood the metaphor easily. _A tight ship_. That was what she wanted to run. With a dark chuckle, she recalled how, after a voyage to Braavos, she had told her brother that she wanted to be a sailor. He had promptly twisted her hair until she cried and told her in no uncertain terms that she was a dragon and not a “smelly fish.” Viserys, though cruel, had not been entirely wrong. Still, her kingdom could be a tight ship, and well run, with equal parts justice and compassion. What the Usurper had ruined, she would restore.

“Who is next?” Dany asked, and saw a man approach on horseback. Another of the lucky few. She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Ah. Ser Whitebeard. Or is it Selmy?”

“Your Grace,” the man approached, head bowed.

Dany had first met the man as Arstan, a squire from Westeros in service to a retired eunuch pit fighter named Strong Belwas. Belwas himself only called the man Whitebeard, for his whiskers were long and white as fallen snow. They had first met when they joined the caravan, passing on a letter and an invitation from Illyrio Mopatis to turn west. Illyrio had sent ships, three of them, to return her to Pentos.

Daenerys had been sorely tempted to take Illyrio’s offer.

Though others, especially Ser Jorah, were suspicious of the cheese monger, Dany still had quite fond memories of Illyrio Mopatis and had always intended to pay him back for hosting herself and Viserys in comfort at his manse. He had been a gracious host when their friends had been few and far between. She was not so naive as to believe the canny magister did not see some angle in which he could potentially profit from them, or from her alone now, but nothing he had done warranted mistreatment or retribution. Even if he did nothing else to ever aid her in all his or her life, Daenerys was intent to repay him for his aid someday.

Thus, yes, she was tempted to take his ships and head back to Pentos.

However, she had already made commitments to meet people in Bayasabhad, and from there, to travel further east still and pursue an alliance and friendship with the rising Orange Emperor of Yi Ti. If needs be, she could take ship in the Jade Sea, though Lady Lin had already convinced her to take a supposedly quicker route to Westeros by sailing further east. She had thus expressed the hope that Illyrio’s ships could wait for word from her in Qarth, or in another port in Yi Ti, but that if not, she would make her own way.

In the end, the ships had left, but Aristan and Belwas – the messengers – had remained. Daenerys had welcomed them into her _khalassar_ , as friends of a friend, allies of an ally, but otherwise thought little of them being there. It was only some time later that Lady Lin and Ser Jorah had approached her with their mutual suspicion about the supposed-squire Whitebeard’s true identity.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said with a deep tone that she couldn’t help but think of as fatherly. “Once more I must apologize and beg your forgiveness; it was never my intention to play you false.”

“Only to watch me from a distance?” Daenerys asked, sighing softly. “To see if I mistreated those below me, perhaps? Or if I was fond of fire?”

Ser Barristan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Your Grace… sees through me.”

“Not on my own,” Dany admitted, and took another look at the knight. He was taller than Ser Jorah, leaner, older, but with hard lines. Though not armored at the moment, except for a steel cuirass, she could see shades of the legendary knight that others had spoken highly of. He reminded her of Jorah in some ways, but in many others, they were like night and day. It was fitting, as they two did not seem to get along, not before Arstan was revealed and not now, after.

Would it have been wiser for him to just appear and announce himself as a Kingsguard seeking a new King, or Queen in this case? Would she have trusted him? He had served the Usurper for most of her lifetime. He abandoned the rightful King and Queen to suffer in Essosi exile. Illyrio would vouch for him, else he would not have been here, delivered by Illyrio’s ships and bearing Illyrio’s invitation, but that only went so far when it came to trust and the mistakes of the past. For that matter, how long would he have been content to secretly gauge whether she was worthy or not to pledge his sword to? They would never know, now.

“You made an appointment to see me, and so we are seeing one another,” Daenerys continued, idly wrapping the reins of her horse around her right hand. “What can I help you with?”

“I merely wished to apologize again, Your Grace… in person,” he added. “Face to face.”

“I see,” Dany considered. “If you would be so kind, could you answer a question of mine?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“When you left Pentos to find me, what were you expecting to see?”

Barristan rode alongside her and he was quiet for a few seconds. “I honestly did not know,” he admitted, with some clear regret. “There was little known about you in Westeros, even among the King’s Small Council. Viserys was brought up from time to time, and there were rumors of how he was…”

“You can say it,” Daenerys said as the man trailed off, searching for kind words. “Aerys come again?”

“Mercurial,” Barristan was more diplomatic. “Your Grace. I joined the Kingsguard under His Grace, King Jaehaerys, second of his name, and I can still recall his voice and his face. He once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Daenerys’ heart missed a beat at that. Not so much because of the old anecdote, but because of who it came from. Ser Barristan had known her grandfather… and surely much else besides. Before meeting Lady Lin, all she had known of Westeros, her true home, and even her family, had come from Viserys and Ser Jorah. The former, she had come to realize, was not exactly an unbiased or reliable source, and in retrospect, neither was the latter. Ser Barristan had likely forgotten more than either of the other two men had ever known, and his knowledge was first-hand.

“I was there for virtually all the years of your father’s life,” the old knight continued, “Though not as clearly, I remember Aegon the Unlikely, who knighted me, and the noble Prince Duncan without whom I would not be here. I have known good Kings and good men, some not necessarily the other.”

“Illyrio wept when he told me that Viserys had died, though for some men, tears mean little in truth,” Barristan recalled. “He told me of you, how he knew you to be good and gentle and caring, and now the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. When I left Westeros, the realm had four kings and no justice. What was I expecting when I came here to see you? I suppose I was hoping to see for myself if you would be different.”

Daenerys nodded, understanding, “And am I?”

“You are,” Ser Barristan answered, simply. “You are very different.”

Dany scoffed. “I think that myself, sometimes. The Daenerys that Illyrio knew died in the Great Grass Sea, and the Daenerys that Drogo married died in his funeral pyre. I am still growing, Ser Whitebeard, still changing, and still learning.”

“A wise man, or woman, is always learning,” he replied, again, in that fatherly tone. “And always growing... and you **_are_** Queen… Your Grace, you **_are_** the trueborn heir of Westeros.”

“I am, but I need wise men and wise women to help me grow into the Queen I must become,” Dany said, and hoped it was as sage as she had others be. “Tell me, then, about my predecessors… and about the Usurper and his spawn. Tell me true. I’ll make my decision about you then, and whether you are a wise man or not.”

So, he spoke.

He began at the beginning and told her of Aegon V, Aegon the Unlikely he was often called, and of how he became King through tragedies and unlikely duels and hedge knights. He told her about the man’s sympathy for the small folk, but he also told her about how his reforms upset the nobility, as a son of that nobility himself and an heir of Harvest Hall. He also recalled, from his distant youth, how the Baratheons under Lyonel ‘The Laughing Storm’ had risen up in brief rebellion over Prince Duncan spurning his betrothal to the man’s daughter. It was from this same incident, Dany knew, that the Usurper claimed his legitimacy, for to appease his enraged old friend, Aegon the Unlikely agreed to marry his daughter to the man’s son.

The Tragedy at Summerhall came, as Aegon wished for dragons to cement his reforms and his rule, and from the ashes came Jaehaerys, second of his name. Her grandfather ruled for only three years, and in those years, Westeros began to revert to normalcy, though marriage problems persisted as with Duncan. Marriage agreements with the Tyrells and Tullys had been broken when Jaehaerys and his sister Shaera effectively eloped, secretly escaping their minders and consummating their marriage. The War of the Ninepenny Kings followed, and the end of the Blackfyres following the death of Maelys Blackfyre.

Dany privately considered whether it was even such a good thing that the Blackfyres were all gone. Perhaps they could have been of some use now, to unite the lines and reclaim the throne. Viserys could have married some descendant of Daemon. Then again, it could also have been the ruin of them, and what’s done was done in any case. Aegon the Fifth’s lesson was one Dany easily took to heart, for she had plans as well for… changes… in the realm. Unlike her poor great grandfather, however, she had three young dragons.

Ser Barristan continued his story, and almost hesitantly, came to Aerys and Princess Rhaella.

Daenerys knew some of what to expect, when this part of her lineage was brought up. Not too long ago, she had bristled at her father being called the Mad King. Viserys had told her the truth of it, he had said so himself, and the truth was that their father was a good man betrayed by ambitious lords, their brother Rhaegar seduced by a northern woman whose family had planned from the start to rip apart the realm. Even Ser Jorah had been hesitant to diverge from that narrative.

It was Lady Lin who had insisted on accuracy, not out of sentiment, but because Lady Lin loved accuracy for accuracy’s sake. Her people had records on not only the number of men (and women) her father had ordered burned alive but notes on how long it took them to expire, most likely from some maester with too much time on his hands. Ser Rickard, Lord Paramount of the North, for example. He had taken a little more than five turns of a small sandglass to die. “Not from suffocation, as you might expect, but from shock and loss of blood. The pyromancers had a system set up to keep a victim’s head clear of smoke, so they died more slowly.”

What Lady Lin’s records couldn’t tell her was what kind of people her family were. Was her mother kind? Did she love her children, or resent them for being products of rape? Was her father ever a good man? Why had Rhaegar run off with Lyanna Stark? Lin’s people were like maesters and cared about numbers above and beyond all things. Ser Barristan… he could know what they did not.

Yet, for all that she wanted to know of noble Rhaegar, the stories of her father and his follies and cruelty left her with too sour a taste in her mouth. In some ways, Lin’s way was kinder: numbers were easier to process than the recollections of a man who had heard the suffering scream… who had heard her own mother’s crying behind closed doors.

“And yet you did nothing to help her.”

Dany felt she need to stop him then and there. She felt her blood boil and couldn’t help but recall those first few nights with her Sun and Stars. Drogo, too, had not been gentle, and had not understood the word, ‘no’ or ‘stop.’ He was Dothraki, and he took what he wanted. A part of her would always hate him for that, even as another part loved and admired him for it.

Yet she doubted her mother ever came to love her father… or forgive him.

“The Kingsguard serves the King, it does not judge him,” Ser Barristan recalled, after a long pause. “We all saw the contradiction. Myself, the White Bull, Ser Arthur, Ser Jon and Ser Oswell. Ser Lewyn was tempted to do something about it, I know. He said so more than once. A knight vows to protect women and the innocent. But it would also set a frightful precedent… Kingsguards acting against Kings, even if it was to protect them from themselves. You know of the Dance of Dragons and Criston Cole, the man called Criston the Kingmaker? The Kingsguard have had men who betray their oaths… but it would be no guard at all if it goes from protecting kings to making them.”

Barristan trailed off after that, and Dany could imagine that he was recalling in his head long-past arguments by long-past men: a brotherhood holed up in the White Sword Tower around candles, arguing what to do. It may have only been her imagination, but who knew today? Jamie Lannister, perhaps. The Kingslayer himself. Who had done just as Ser Barristan suggested, ending the reign of a Mad King but far too late to save anyone.

 _Ser Arthur Dayne._ Dany knew him as the legendary Sword of the Morning, who even Viserys had praised. _Ser Oswell Whent_. _Ser Gerold Hightower_. _Ser Jonothor Darry. Prince Lewyn Martell. Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Jamie Lannister_. These men had been the Kingsguard of her father, and many were the friends of her brother. She knew them by name and reputation… all but one, who she now met face-to-face.

Was he a wise choice for her Queensguard?

Could she _trust_ him? Hells, should she even _have_ a Queensguard? She had her bear, her right-hand, Ser Jorah. And she had her bloodriders. Maybe that was enough?

“As for Rhaegar…” Ser Barristan tried to continue.

“My brother and the Usurper can wait for another time,” Dany said, interrupting him. She held up a hand for silence, to hear her out. “I asked for the truth, Ser Barristan, and I sense you have given it to me… raw and real and painful. For both of us. For this, for your candor, I thank you. Let me tell you now what I wish from those who would serve me: obedience, yes, but also honesty and a good heart. I am but a young girl-”

She couldn’t help but use one of her new favorite phrases to try and disarm him, as she had so many in Qarth. It helped that she actually was still a young girl.

“-but what I do know is that there is much I do not yet know. I do not need flatterers or hangers-on. If I am wrong… well, I know I have at least one advisor who will tell me if I am _factually_ wrong. But I need someone who can tell me if I am also being cruel or unwise. Mine is the blood of the dragon, Ser Barristan, and sometimes it burns hot indeed. I have come to see that this is both a great strength and a potential weakness.”

Ser Barristan bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

“Advise me, Ser Barristan, but _never_ betray me, and never lie to me, even to spare my feelings,” she concluded. “Do this, and I will welcome you under my banner and into my trust.”

“I swear it,” Ser Barristan vowed. “Give me a blade, and I will swear my oath here and now.”

“I had not noticed… your empty scabbard. Is there some story behind that?”

“That,” Barristan murmured, and stroked his beard anxiously. “Honestly, I thought to tell you, during our conversation, and if you would have me… that I had thrown away my sword and would only accept one from my Queen.”

Dany stared at him for a moment, not quite sure if this was knightly pageantry or mummery.

“It sounded noble when I committed to it,” Ser Barristan explained, trying to hold onto his dignity.

“Rakharo will bring us a suitable sword from the armory,” Dany promised, sending a quick look to her bloodrider, who was lurking quietly behind them, watching and listening for any betrayal.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan added, again, with a little hesitation. “There is one other thing. In the interests of the truth… there is something you should know about Ser Jorah.”

“About… Ser Jorah?” Dany asked in surprise.

What could there be to say about him? Did Ser Barristan suspect that Jorah pined for her? That he had dared to kiss her, two days ago? It was of concern, yes, but it was hardly some terrible revelation. Ser Jorah would just needs find another woman, a good woman, which Dany was certain he would in time. He only needed to understand that while she _loved_ him and cared for him, she did not _desire_ him. Aside from that largely harmless indiscretion, Ser Jorah was just… _Ser Jorah_.

Her loyal bear.

Or so she had thought.

. . .

 _Informer_.

 _Spy_.

_Traitor!_

Dany’s mind was awhirl with invectives.

Ser Jorah, the man who had saved and protected her, who had given her advice and comfort, who had been her only friend in this world through some of the hardest times in her life… Ser Jorah who had been more a brother to her than her own flesh and blood…! An informer for the gods damned Usurper! How could it be true? How?!

Dany’s first and most overriding impulse had been to seek out and confront Ser Jorah himself, and she had been stalking through the camp – Ser Barristan at her heels – with the intention of doing just that. Then, impulse drew her into a detour. If _Ser Jorah_ had betrayed her, if her great bear couldn’t be trusted, if he hadn’t been her friend this whole time, then who knew who else had been false? Who else had been manipulating her? When she walked by the non-descript tent, one name popped into her head, familiar and mysterious, dear and dangerous, and suddenly omnipresent.

 _Three treasons will you know, once for blood and once for gold and once for love_.

Damned prophecies. She _had_ to know.

“Wait here, Ser,” Daenerys commanded, not even bothering to wait for Ser Barristan’s answer.

“But your Grace, I--”

She ignored him. She ignored everything else.

Pulling open the flap of the tent, Daenerys saw the object of her confusion and ire. She was with a girl Dany didn’t know or recognize – someone from one of the merchant groups – a young girl whose eyes widened in shock and fright at the _khaleesi’s_ sudden appearance and enraged visage. Lady Lin had her back to the tent flap but seemed to have eyes in the back of her head to compensate.

“Just a moment, Daenerys,” she said, offhandedly, filling a little paper bag with a small handful of rounded candies. She turned and tossed the bag to the girl. “Here. Suck on one of these in the morning and another at night. You don’t need anything else; you’re not dying and you’re not sick.”

“T-thank you, kind master,” the girl muttered in high valyrian, bowing her head effusively to both Lin and then Daenerys. She seemed to gauge Dany’s bad mood better than Lin. “Good Queen.  Thank you both. Please excuse me!”

As she hurried out, Lin shook her head. “Not sick, but terrible teeth. Terrible. So, Daenerys, what brings you to me, all full of fire and fury?”

“Did you know about Ser Jorah?” Dany asked, advancing on the older woman.

“I think most everyone who spends time around you two knows about that,” Lin answered, seeming unperturbed by the woken dragon.

“Not that! I’m not happy everyone around me seems to know about that, but I _meant_ his _treason_!” She stamped her foot and leveled a finger at the Yitish woman. “He was betraying me this whole time! To the _Usurper_ of all people! I want to know if you knew!”

“Jorah was Varys’ spy?” Lin asked, cupping her chin in thought. “Well, that makes sense…”

“So, you **did** know!”

“Sort of. I knew there was _a_ spy, because my people had spies of our own listening in on many of the small council meetings,” Lin explained, her calmness a stark contrast with Dany’s fury. “Unfortunately, Varys began to grow paranoid some time before Robert’s death and he took efforts to stymie our… little birds. Our intel gathering since then has never been as easy as it was in previous years, and we were never omniscient to begin with.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Dany snapped, angry too that her fury was beginning to ebb away, replaced by frustration and helplessness. A worry that had been in the back of her mind bubbled up to the surface and, after many months, popped.

“I don’t _know_ you,” she said, and while it had meant to come out as a fierce condemnation, Dany heard her voice break, betraying her, too. “I don’t _know_ you! Not the **real** you! Not the truth about you! You’re probably the only real friend I have in this whole world and _I don’t even know you!_ How can I trust you? How can I trust _anyone?_ Ser Jorah lied to me, spied on me, even when I was with child! And I know no more of you today than I did when we first met!”

Daenerys found herself short on breath as the words finished spilling out, though why she felt so exhausted, she couldn’t say. At least she could see her words had had an effect. Lady Lin’s expression had hardly changed when she saw her khaleesi angry, but now she saw them soften and even grow pensive. Lin seemed about to talk, only to bite back her words and reconsider.

“Explain that,” Dany demanded, and took it a step further. She pushed Lin by the shoulder back a step. “Explain that!” She pushed again, harder, forcing the woman to stumble. “You can explain everything else! Explain that to me! I command it! Explain it to me!!”

“Daenerys,” Lin said, holding up her hands and, after a fumble, catching Dany’s own. “Stop, please. Give me a moment.”

“A moment to… what?” Dany spat. “Think up a lie? To make a fool of me?”

“A moment to think about how to explain the truth,” Lin replied. She let Dany’s hands go free and turned around to run both hands through her dark hair. “You’re right. _You’re right_ … you do know little about me. But you must know I was not sent to be your friend or your companion. I was sent to _educate_ you.”

“Sent by who?” Dany asked, and physically closed in on her again. “Tell me who you _really_ work for and what they _really_ want!”

“That… is very difficult to explain in a way you would understand,” Lin began, and met Dany’s eyes. “I suppose, what we want is for you to be more like us. Then, when you are more like us, you can join us.”

“Join you?” Daenerys didn’t understand. She said as much. “What does that mean? Join you?” Her expression darkened and she staggered back a step. “Do you mean _serve you?_ ”

Lin shook her head. “We are not Ghis or Volantis; we don’t have slaves or serfs. Ours is like a Freehold, where every human, every man and woman, is free, within reasonable limits. They are free to own land, free to work or not work, free to move from land to land, so long as it is within the realm, and free to pursue their happiness… we do not _need_ slaves or serfs. If we need those things, we make them from silicon and steel, not flesh and blood.”

She spread her arms wide, and Dany saw the passion and the truth in her eyes and knew that this, this was the real Zhu Lin before her now.

“We want you to join us as equals,” she said, and gently but firmly took Daenerys by the shoulders, “We want you to be one of our fortresses in the night, a beacon of order and strength in the darkness, but you must **rise** to do that. You must be so much more than you are now, _wasted_ , living hand-to-mouth here in the dirt. We need to teach you how to stand. You are not our equals, not yet, but you _can_ be. _Must_ be! We will give you that first push but then – then you must lift yourselves up! Then you will be our brothers and our sisters!”

Lin let out a breath, still riding an emotional high of her own. “Is any of this making sense to you?”

“No,” Dany answered, though in truth some of it did. All the lessons, all the lectures, all the _tests_ , suddenly they all took on a new meaning. They weren’t just to make her a better ruler in the future. They were… to bring her up to a level that was considered… more than just a child? Something like that?

“Daenerys,” Lin said, and Dany glanced up to see the older woman’s worried expression. Her eyes were tight and seemed almost ready to shed tears. “I was sent to educate you, to guide you, but that was only the start. I care about you. I don’t have any real friends here, either… except maybe you.” She smiled, wan and apologetic. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been open with you, but I didn’t want to scare you.”

“The dragon doesn’t get scared,” Dany told her, wiping a tear out of her left eye under the pretense of brushing away a stray hair.

“Of course, it does,” Lin replied with a grin. “They actually spook very easily. Viserion is jumpier than a cat.”

Dany smiled back, weakly. “He is,” she admitted.

“My name is Zhu Lin,” the foreign woman finally said, and a load seemed to lift off her chest and off her shoulders, “and I’m from the Commonwealth of Man. The Commonwealth of _all men_.”

. . .

Daenerys left Lin’s tent in a very different mood than when she entered.

Questions had been answered, but many more had been left with only a promise to revisit them in the future. What Lin had shared was almost unbelievable… had she not already proven herself to be uncannily wise about so much else in this world. She was no Mirri Maz Duur or Quaithe. Her knowledge was vast but not inscrutable; quite the contrary, as she concerned herself with sharing and explaining her knowledge more than anything else. She was a teacher and a wise woman, but also an agent of powers beyond anything seen on Essos or Westeros.

A year ago, Daenerys would have seen a flying lantern and thought it magic. Now, she knew how to make one, and why it flew. Perhaps most importantly, she could never see a mystery again and simply discount it as inexplicable. Lin had taught her, above all else, to look beneath the surface for the mechanisms of the universe. She had already taken the first step, by simply changing her world view, towards joining the Commonwealth. There, man’s curiosity towards the mechanisms of the universe was all but insatiable, for in those secrets lay True Power.

When Lin explained this, Daenerys felt it stir something in her heart.

When Lin explained it, Daenerys knew she felt the same.

It had not always been thus, and it need never have been thus, but eyes once opened seldom willingly shut. They would have to speak more about it all, but not with Irri, Jhiqui or Doreah present. Daenerys knew that none of them were ready for such truths and knowing that made it easier to understand that she herself had not been ready either, not very long ago.

For now, there was the matter of Ser Jorah.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan dipped his head, having dutifully waited outside the tent. He seemed relieved that Dany had calmed, but she could see the tension in his shoulders and how his hand tensed on the pommel of his sword.

“How much did you overhear, ser?” she asked. “I did not realize the Kingsguard were such eavesdroppers.”

“Many a Kingsguard has stood witness while matters of the realm were decided by Kings and Queens,” Ser Barristan explained, but a little shamefully. “A knight of the Kingsguard is always in the King’s presence, day and night. Our vows are to protect his secrets as we protect his life.”

“That aside?” Dany pressed. “How much did you hear?”

“More than I ever imagined,” Ser Barristan answered with an unsteady voice. “A castle built in the heavens themselves? How can such a thing be true? Are you truly to see it, someday?”

“I suspect you would like to see it, too, as one of my Queensguard,” Dany observed, and Ser Barristan blushed.

“All boys dream of such follies; I was no different. To see one before I die…” He shook his head. “It is all too much. I am yours, and I am your Kingsguard, or Queensguard, by any name the duty is the same to me. I will go where you lead. I do not know this Lady Lin, I can speak neither well nor ill of her, and I know nothing of her people. If they are as mighty as she claims them to be, it is wise to be cautious, but it doesn’t change what needs be done for the Seven Kingdoms.”

“No, it does not,” Daenerys agreed, and nodded both to herself and to him. “In fact, just the opposite: in ten years’ time, this window of opportunity will close, and likely stay closed forever. Come. It is time to see Ser Jorah.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, already falling in step behind her. “If I may ask, what do you intend to do?”

“I will not know for certain until I see him, and see his face, when I confront him with the truth,” Dany replied, crossing her arms over her chest but still in thought. “But after the talk I just had… with wroth given way to reason, I do not think I can condemn him. Not like I first thought to. Besides, if I held everyone-” and here she gave Barristan a hard glare “-to _certain standards_ then I would be truly and utterly alone… and I do not want that, Ser. I have been alone enough in my life.”


	7. Chapters 15, 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters  
> (15) Daenerys II (5.8k)  
> (16) Jon (6.8k)

. . .

(15) Daenerys II

. . .

In time, the Red Waste turned into a dry burnished-copper scrubland dotted with rocky outcroppings and promontories. On the horizon Daenerys could see a colossal mountain range, waiting for them, and every day it grew closer and closer. The wind grew fiercer, too, as they approached the base of the mountains, like the voice of nature itself warning them away. West, it seemed to howl, go west, yet eastward they trekked, towards the mountain holdfasts of Hyrkoon and the Orange Emperor in Tiqui.

The caravan came upon a band of marauders on the second day, lurking in the scrub like ragged and hungry _hrakkar_. It could have been an ambush, had Aggo’s scouts not kept a sharp eye out for danger. A brief battle had ensued as some of the bandits fought and others fled; Dany’s bloodriders could not be held back from putting their horsemanship to the test and reliving a bit of what it meant to be Dothraki. Only one of the ambushers had a horse himself, and he fled. The others, it was wagered, had been targeting their horses more than their carts. Living horses west of the Bones were worth their weight in saffron. A camel could do, in a pinch, but it was not as swift or noble as a steed.

Days later, the caravan encountered their first sandstorm.

They had planned ahead for it, however, and been forewarned by one of Lady Lin’s strange devices, able to detect changes in the weight of the wind. Two of the merchants had also brought a particular type of bird which was also well known to smell the rising storms from afar and fly into a panic. The caravan took refuge both in their tents and on the opposite bank of a rocky outcropping. Men and beasts, and even dragons, hunkered down thusly as the wind screamed and howled.

For more than a day the sky itself receded, replaced by an impenetrable red and orange haze. The caravan could not move and so those who could huddled together in the shelter they had and played games or, if they could read, they literally dusted off a good book. This was what Daenerys did, finding a book of Westerosi children’s tales. It was a book near and dear to her, a gift from Ser Jorah for her wedding. She had thought to use the time to ask Lady Lin more about her people, with no fear of them being disturbed, but the Lady was busy tending to those with a condition called asthma, or a shortness of breath as most Essosi and Westerosi knew it.

A second smaller storm came upon them days later, at the feet of the Dry Bones themselves. Though a smaller storm lasting only a few hours, Daenerys found the memory of it stuck with her as they had taken meager shelter behind a line of great black-stone statues that were erected on either side of the road. She recalled Vaes Dothrak and the many statues of gods and kings taken there from sacked cities, including the colossal twin horses that stood at the main entrance of the Grass City.

These statues had been left in the open here, beside the Sand Road, unmolested.

Daenerys could see why that was perhaps the case when she grew closer. They were hideous looking things with a sinister and black-hearted aspect, monolithic and carved out of and into several jutting buttes so as to glare down at the road. The sentinels depicted monstrous men and women with animalistic features: an extra pair of arms, a gnarled root in place of a hand, a mouthful of bestial teeth, a skull-like face without eyes, and more. Who had carved them and why, none could say, not even Lady Lin.

No city had ever been built here, and they were not ancient Qathi, Valyrian or Ghiscari. The locals claimed they were guardians built over tombs, but if those same tombs had ever been plundered, there was no record. They were simply terrifying and unknown shadows of the distant past, and Daenerys did not enjoy her time camped under their gaze, waiting for the storm to die down.

At times, she could’ve sworn she heard voices in the storm.

Yet it came and went quickly, and soon they were back on the move, leaving the strange sentinels behind. The Sand Road wound into the base of the mountains and it was there that they encountered their first patrol from Bayasabhad, the so-called City of Serpents. A band of warrior women stopped them by a fortified waypost to check their papers and their wares. Daenerys smiled all the rest of the day remembering their shock at the sight of the caged but very much real Drogon, Rheagal and Viserion.

They had personally handed her a travel document, verifying their identity and the goods of their caravan, and offered to “bank” any valuables they wished to deposit. Daenerys was familiar with this practice from her time in Braavos. Rather than travel with one’s monies physically in one’s pocket, it was possible to trade them in at a station or post like this for a note of credit. This note could then be used anywhere else run by the bank to retrieve the money one had deposited elsewhere, but only by that same person or their trusted representatives. If the note was stolen, it was an inconvenience but no real loss. The deposited monies could be withdrawn when the main bank’s ledgers were checked.

Sometimes, banks would even accept one another’s notes! The Rogare Bank, for example, had accepted one of their notes from the Iron Bank of Braavos, back when she was a young girl in the Free Cities. It was a fine system, and one that she thought Westeros could also benefit from some day. Lady Lin’s people apparently practiced it as well, so it was probably inevitable.

The caravan did not linger long at the waystation, regardless. It was not built for such.

Instead, they began to ascend the mountains, along a winding but relatively accommodating road. It was well maintained by the barbaric women-warriors of Bayasabhad and free of bandits and beasts, though they were warned not to attract packs of red painted dogs by littering the road with refuse. The dogs themselves were not a great danger, but they occasionally carried the spotted plague and were a nuisance at best. The warrior women, for their part, had great orange hounds that they used in their patrols and that frightened off the red painted dogs of the mountains. There were also goats aplenty in the mountains that they were free to catch, if they paid a fee.

There was another waystation they passed, just the next day, and Dany realized they were all likely close enough that a signal fire from one could be seen by another, forming a chain back to Bayasabhad. By the third day, they were high enough up the mountains that Daenerys was treated to spectacular views of the scrubland and the wastes beyond by looking back the way they had come. Looking west, she could see a great flat expanse all the way to the distant horizon, speckled with darker spots from rocky outcroppings. It was an immense blanket of orange that turned, at just the very end, a little red. This high in the mountains, the nights seemed even darker than normal and the stars even brighter than before.

“There,” Lady Lin had whispered to her, one night as they sipped hot tea over a small fire. She was pointing up at the starry sky. “See it? That’s one of our satellites.”

Daenerys still didn’t entirely understand how it kept overhead, higher than the mightiest dragon could fly, though she was confident she would… in time.

“What does it do, and why is it bright like a star?” Dany wondered.

“It isn’t bright at all, actually,” Lady Lin explained and leaned back on her blanket, hands behind her head. “What you’re seeing is a reflection of the light of the sun. It is dark down here, but it is still bright up there.”

Daenerys stared up at the tiny light. It looked very much like a faint star.

“No one else noticed this? I can see it with just my eyes, if I know what to look for.”

“The maesters noticed,” Lin answered. “And the celestials in Yi Ti, and the augers in the Summer Islands, and one or two other places. The maesters were the only ones to start panicking about it, though, and start asking around. So, we subverted them first, long before we got permission from our leaders to contact you.”

“You control the maesters?”

“Control them… no…” The foreign woman shook her head. “We _guide_ some of them, like we’re guiding you and some others.”

Daenerys nodded, and gasped as the light they had been watching suddenly vanished. Blinking, she tried to find it again. “What happened? It’s gone!”

“You remember what I said before?” Lin asked, still reclined lazily on the ground. “It doesn’t have lights of its own, so why might it have vanished?”

Daenerys had to think about it for a short while, but she soon realized what it might be. “The sun! The sun can be eclipsed… that’s when the moon blocks it. The answer is shadows. The world has a shadow, and the satellite flew into it.” She turned to the stranger in their midst. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Lin smiled and nodded. “You got it. Can you guess how fast they would have to be moving?”

“More math?” Daenerys fixed her advisor with a sour pout.

“The world is math,” Lin argued, but sighed in defeat. “Okay. Can you guess how you would guess?”

That, Daenerys could answer. “If we know how high it is, we can calculate the angle. From the angle, you can get the distance. From the distance, you can get the speed.”

“Clever!” Lin gave her a happy nudge with her elbow. “And the guys up at Horizon are always bragging about Arya Stark this and Arya Stark that. I’ve got them all beat with my Dragon Queen!”

Daenerys blushed at the praise, but also wondered, “Arya Stark?”

“You already know you’re not the only one on this planet we’re looking into,” Lin reminded her with a twinkle in her eye. “When we get to Bayasabhad we’ll introduce you to another one. You’re all special, and we’re entrusting the future of Essos and Westeros to you.”

“Of course,” Dany murmured, still blushing from the praise. Lady Lin kept looking up at the night sky, and Daenerys wondered if she was thinking of home, or of the castle in the sky her people had. She knew far more of Zhu Lin than she used to, though much was hard to picture or understand.

What she did know, though, was that she had at least one friend she could count on; one person who saw her as Daenerys and not just as a Khaleesi or a Queen, though she was that, too, and more. She had not turned Jorah away, and she did not regret that, but she was unsure if she could ever truly trust him again. He loved her but he had also betrayed her, admitting to sending his last letter to the Spider from Qarth. **_Qarth!_** He had saved her life and been her right hand, and he had been everything Viserys was not, but…

 _Once for blood, once for gold, once for love_.

Three prophesized betrayals. The first had to be Mirri. The last had to be Jorah. And the idea that Lin would betray her for gold was ridiculous. It would be someone else, and she would watch for it, but at the same time she would not let the fear of betrayal consume her. She would not be alone, not again.

“Do you think prophecies are real?” Dany asked, then.

“You’re probably assuming I’ll say no, right out of hand?” Lin asked back, and Dany nodded.

“My people use modeling and forecasting to predict the future by studying the past and the present,” she explained, still relaxed and still with her hands behind her head. Her chest rose and fell as she thought of her next words. “The most advanced… _people_ … like the Curators… can use the Shroud and sublime dimensional physics to separate discrete outcomes from inherently chaotic systems.”

“Order from chaos,” Dany could understand that much, but Lin had mostly lost her there.

The older woman frowned. “Explaining it is difficult. Sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“Let me put it another way,” she continued. “Their prophecies aren’t like the ones Quaithe gives, or like you saw in the House of the Undying… but they are related and use some similar principles. I won’t say that all prophecies are useless, but I will say that none are certain, some are just self-fulfilling, and most are vague nonsense. People remember the prophecies that come true, not the ones that don’t.”

“Like Daenys the Dreamer,” Daenerys replied, still watching Lin relax. “My namesake. She wrote a whole book of prophecies, but only one clearly came true.”

“I know of her. A shame the whole of that book was lost,” Lin grumbled, closing her eyes and resting her hands on her stomach. “You can blame Baelor-book-burner for that.”

 _Baelor the Blessed_. Not one of Lin’s favorite Targaryens, Dany knew.

On a whim, Daenerys felt comfortable enough in that moment to ask something that had been on her mind for days now. “Lin?”

The Strange woman opened an eye to glance at her. “Hm?”

“Do you have someone you care for on that sky-castle? Or where you came from?”

“Family at home, friends on horizon, why?” Lin, for once, didn’t understand.

“I meant someone _special_ , like my Sun and Stars was to me.”

Lin snorted, dismissive. “I had a boyfriend who cheated on me three years ago, but no one like your Sun and Stars.” Daenerys frowned, and Lin seemed to notice it. She sat up with a sigh. “No. I don’t have anyone like that. I’m not married or engaged. Why?”

“But…” Dany bit her lower lip, regretting the question a little now. “Irri seems to think you’re three and thirty.”

“Really?!” Lin seemed amused. She laughed. “She thought I was thirty-three?”

“Jhiqui said it was ridiculous…”

“I’m _four_ and thirty actually,” Lin explained, sucking on her tongue and pursing her lips. “Thirty-four. How on Unity did she know how old I was? I actually had my birthday just last week, so she was probably spot-on.”

“So you _are_ that old?!” Dany couldn’t believe it.

“Hey.” Lin pointed a finger at her. “Thirty-four is _not_ old.”

“But you don’t look… thirty-four,” Dany finally said, using Lin’s phrasing. Still, though, four and thirty was pretty old. She truly looked ten years younger. “Don’t you want to marry? Have children? Your order isn’t like the Silent Sisters, is it?”

“Daenerys,” Lin had to explain, and ran a hand through her dark hair. “Our people are different. Our societies and diets, our medicines and bodies… and lots of other things that are hard to explain. Among my people, no girl your age would _ever_ be married, and certainly not having children of her own. When you have children, or maybe when we get to your grandchildren, many will be like me, single well into their thirties. As for kids, my parents had six… I’d be fine with just four. There’s nothing wrong with having the first one at forty, or even fifty, though most don’t. That’s our normal.”

“That’s _strange_ is what it is, all of it,” Daenerys argued and turned away. “My _grandchildren_ …”

“Now having grandchildren before you’re forty? That, I can’t even imagine. It doesn’t even seem possible until you do the math.” Lin chuckled, but her smile died when she saw something on Dany’s face. “Daenerys? What’s wrong? There’s something else that’s bothering you.”

“No. No! Nothing much! Just that you’re old enough to be my mother!” Dany put on a smile and gave Lin a push on the shoulder. “You’re an old maid! And you didn’t tell anyone about your name day!”

“I think you have some Whent blood in you, because you’re blind as a bat.” Lin winked and pressed her breasts together. “I’ve still got the goods! I just wish I had my swimsuit with me. And do you know how many local boys I’ve had to turn down?”

“Like Jhogo? You don’t fancy him?”

“Not at all! Leaving aside his history, and that he’s a _child_ , **and** not my type, and the ridiculous facial hair, that boy’s not exactly clean and he wouldn’t use a prophylactic even if I gave him one.”

“Is that so?” Dany asked, grinning, but also wondered, “Wait. A what?”

Lin sighed and buried her head in her hand. “The fact that maybe a hundred people on this continent know what a prophylactic is makes me sad. Very sad.”

“We’re not idiots, and I _think_ I know what you mean!” Dany objected, feeling the need to defend her people’s honor. “Doreah taught me that you have to rub the man with onion to make it safe. It is known.”

Lin’s face remained buried in her hand.

“What? It is known!”

“Please. Please. _Please_ don’t use that phrase.”

. . .

It was on the eleventh day in the mountains that they came upon one of Lomas Longstrider’s famed Wonders: the Crystal Path. Even to an exiled girl in the Free Cities, Daenerys knew Longstrider’s famous book. Everyone did. He was one of the most famous of all Westerosi.

Nine Wonders were built by men, and Seven Wonders given by the gods. The nine wonders of man were the most well-known: the Valyrian Roads, the Triple-Walls of Qarth, the Three Bells of Norvos, The Ice Wall of the Northmen, the Titan of Braavos, the Long Bridge of Volantis, the now-lost Palace of a Thousand Rooms in Sarnath, the Five Forts, and the Hightower of Oldtown. Of these, Daenerys had seen three, which was a good start for a girl of six and ten.

Fewer recalled the wonders of made by the gods, for they were in more distant locales not like to be visited by even the most curious men. Some were actually more compound wonders of man and gods, like the enormous Talking Trees of the Summer Islands, famed for their size but also for their carvings. One could argue that without the trees, though, there would be no carvings on them, so they were effectively gifts from the gods.

One such wonder, commonly visited, was the Crystal Path.

As the Sand Road straightened toward Bayasabhad, it passed through a normally impenetrable section of the Dry Bones. There were other goat paths, but nothing wide and secure enough for an army or a caravan with wagons and a train. It was here that the ancients had excavated a great tunnel that entered into a spectacular cavern. The Crystal Path, it became called.

It started with yet another waypost of the warrior women, where once again the caravan’s paperwork was checked, and another mark made on their pass-port. This waypost stood aside and astride the opening cut into the mountain that was the terminus of the Sand Road. Here, a great gate of iron blocked the path and could only be opened from inside the holdfast.

Daenerys waited anxiously aside her horse as the gates parted before them. Eunuch men heaved and huffed as they worked a great wheel that caused the gates to retract into the granite walls of the mountain pass. Warrior women, and even some of their huge uncut brothers, watched over the operation from their crenelated perches and towers. While it was not unknown for armies to break their way through the pass (only to die before mighty Bayasabhad), many and most never made it that far. The pass here was easy to defend. Even with dragons, Dany would not have wanted to make such an assault. What good were dragons against an enemy buried so deep?

“We have come to the end of the known world,” Ser Barristan said softly.

Her lone Kingsguard, he rode by her side, along with her bloodriders: Aggo, with his dragonbone bow, Jhogo, with his silver whip, and Rakharo with his jeweled arakh. She was resolved to buy white armor for Ser Barristan at Bayasabhad, but for now he made do with half-plate and a good horse. He had also shaved his beard, making him look at least ten years younger and twice as fierce.

“Or close to it,” Ser Jorah remarked.

He rode not by Dany’s side, but as guard to Lady Lin, who was yet willing to take him on. On hearing the proposal, she had wondered if perhaps Lady Lin had eyes for the bear, but it was more she wanted to keep an eye on the former spy and use him to get to the Spider. She had him working as a secretary and apprentice of sorts, which Daenerys found to be adequate penance for the time being.

Someday… she would forgive him and accept him back, but not any time soon, and not until he learned his place. On occasion, though, Daenerys did wonder what could have happened with her life if she had listened to him and fled east right from the start, or later, taken his suggestion and gone west to the Slave Cities on the way to Pentos. Presenting Illyrio with an Unsullied Army still had some appeal, to show she was not another Beggar Queen, but Barristan had been appalled by the very idea when she shared it with him. Unsullied slave-soldiers were anathema to Westerosi values and would not win her the love of the nobility or smallfolk there.

“Bayasabhad lays beyond,” she heard Rakharo grumble. “Khal Togo nearly took it, and Khal Zhogo before him.”

“These caves are cursed,” Aggo said, hands so tight on the reins of his horse that his knuckles were nearly white. “The howls of the dead can be heard within. It is known.”

“It is known,” Jhogo agreed.

“Howls of the dead, is it?” Lady Lin remarked, riding at Dany’s left side, the only other woman among them with her handmaids relegated to the rear. “Sounds interesting. Let’s see for ourselves.”

“Yes!” Daenerys led them and took the first few steps. “Let’s. Follow me.”

Urging her horse forward, she entered the shadow of the mountain’s mouth. Within was a great pass, cut in ancient times and worn smooth, wide enough for a dozen wagons to pass coming and going and never touch. The ceiling, too, was immensely high, six times taller than the tallest man. Braziers flickered on the walls, fed by whale-oil shipped overland hundreds of miles. Daenerys could smell them burning in their iron cages, and as she continued deeper, she could feel a faint breeze as well and a soft sound like running water. The tunnel continued for what felt like a league, but was probably less, it was hard to tell without any real frame of reference.

At last, though, it opened up to the Crystal Pass itself.

Here, the tunnel ended and merged into a roadway, lifted off the floor by stonework. The caves widened quickly into a great gallery, the ceiling rising higher and the floor falling away into a black abyss. The cavern they soon found themselves within was massive, though allegedly much smaller than the great caves near Norvos, but what made these a wonder was not just size but appearance.

The walls of the cave were lined by tremendous crystals, glowing a faint green. They spread like jagged fingers or roots from the ceiling, reaching downward for water that no longer flowed. Others, further down below them especially, were simply giant, sticking up out of the walls and floor like toppled pillars, growing in a mad hedge-like jumble. They were everywhere in the cavern, above, below, and all around, lit up by the artificial light of flickering flames. The heat and the moisture were abrupt and oppressive, and Dany felt the need to mop her brow within minutes.

“Remarkable,” she whispered, over the hushed silence of her inner circle.

“A true wonder,” Ser Jorah agreed.

“It is like a womb,” Aggo said softly, in awe.

“There is only one Womb of the World,” Jhogo insisted, but he, too, was hushed. “It is known.”

“The World is great. It may have many wombs,” Aggo speculated, not quite ready to concede.

“I never imagined I would see such a thing,” Ser Barristan remarked, leaning slightly over to the side as he rode, to see further down over the lip of the road. “It is a long way down… and all spear-stone.”

“How does such a place come to be?” he wondered then and turned to the one they all came to when they needed answers to such questions. Barristan had traveled with them only a few weeks, but already it was routine.

Lady Lin was enraptured, too, but she caught the question. “Oh.” She turned to the aged knight. “Well, the short answer is acid, like you’d find in vinegar or citrus. That sharp, sour taste and smell. In vinegar, that’s about four-parts acid out of a hundred. These are simple acids: calcium, sulfur and oxygen. Flowing water and acid dissolve these caves over millions of years, and the mineral rich water forms the crystals as an evaporite. The colors we’re seeing in the spear-stone, or gypsum, are due to impurities introduced by volcanism. You’ve noticed the heat? Lots of green… because of copper... quite breathtaking, really… otherworldly.”

“Water did this?” Daenerys asked, having followed the explanation more than most.

“Ages ago, yes,” Lin affirmed. “We’re lucky. Some of these caves are not safe to just walk through… but people have been here for thousands of years. The masonry is ancient.”

“They say it was old when even the Valyrians were young,” Jorah said, wary of the edges of the road and the drop down.

“A common and not particularly creative shibboleth,” Dany told him, having heard it herself many times in Qarth. They were very fond of pointing out that they were older than Valyria, as if it lent them some tiny sliver of pride-by-proxy. It had gotten to the point where repetition of it honestly annoyed her. Jorah’s use of it also gave her an opportunity to show off her vocabulary a bit. Childish, maybe. But it felt good.

“Probably true, though,” Lin said, and pointed to one of the pillars that rose up from the floor below to the ceiling above. It was lightly crusted with smoky white crystal, but the stone beneath was smoke-black. “Crystal aside, you can see the difference between the older plain black stonework and the newer carved material.”

“I’ve seen that black stone before on Pyke.” Barristan was pensive. “And on one visit to the Hightower. Prince Rheagar went to investigate the base of it… the part they’ve kept covered up since the Andals came. He bade us remain outside while he and Ser Arthur delved deeper into the foundations. They both returned, hours later and white as sheets. Neither ever spoke of what they saw.”

“I’ve seen it before, too,” Lin added, nodding at the old man’s story, “in Yeen.”

“You’ve been to Yeen, my Lady?” Jorah asked, shocked.

“I did my first rotation there,” Lin answered, and quickly bit back her words. “Sorry, that’s another way of saying I spent a summer there.”

“What madness would compel you to spend a summer in Yeen?” Barristan asked, aghast. “Nymeria called it the city so evil the jungle dared not enter.”

“And I can see why she’d call it that,” Lin’s answer was evasive, and Dany suspected why. “The stonework can be found all around the world and predates anything h- it predates most human records.”

“Most curious,” Jorah concluded, not seemingly to notice the little hiccup in words Lady Lin made.

“A mystery for another time,” Lin quickly noted.

“At least Bayasabhad keeps this road safe,” Ser Barristan said. “If it crumbled out beneath us…”

“Oh, we’d be quite dead if that happened,” Lin agreed with apparent cheer. “Dashed to bits. Arms here. Legs there. More bones for the Bones.”

“This is an unnatural place, no matter what you say, _koalakeesi_ ,” Aggo spoke up for the anxious Dothraki who had to make the passage through unfamiliar terrain. Here, too, their horses could not drink, and the water was poison. Like the sea, it made them uncomfortable, though at least Aggo remembered his manners. _Koalakeesi_ meant healer-woman. Dany knew Aggo had visited Lady Lin not long ago, complaining of a soreness in the saddle. What he had, Lin refused to say or gossip about (something about ‘confidentiality’) but Dany could guess.

The cave stretched on and on, and the road followed it rather than cut unnecessarily through more rock and crystal than it absolutely had to. Every so often it would make an angle and veer to the right slightly, or to the left, but save for one section where a ramp led upwards, it kept perfectly level. The sea of crystals continued all around them, predominantly green, and always alight with flickering fire from iron-caged oil braziers.

It was a surprise when they came to a midway point specifically for resting travelers and caravans. Near one section, a platform had been raised up out of the crystals and bedrock below and adjoined to the old road. Here, in the crystal cave, hawkers and villagers emerged to sell wares and trinkets of all things! Others sold food and snacks instead, all themed to the Crystal Pass where they were allowed to set up shop if not actually settle. When they heard who she was, many offered gifts.

Of those gifts, Dany most enjoyed their ‘rock-candies.’

Shaped like giant crystals, naturally.

They stayed there for just a day and a night, and as was typical, there was a brothel that saw a generous influx of coin. The caravan may have lingered longer in that curious place, but even after only two days Dany found herself longing to see the sun once more. They soon resumed their trek, and when the crystal cavern ended, they followed the road through another artificial tunnel. This connected to another cavern, where the road became more of a path, winding through rocky formations wet with condensation. There, she saw pools of water with a sign that clearly depicted someone drinking from it and then dying, and later, what appeared to be a nearly bottomless pit that the path took them by and thankfully not over.

At last the road resumed, flat and level, and brought them to one last tunnel. They camped there, near the end, and on the morning of the next day at last saw the sun. They were through the Crystal Pass, and Dany mentally checked another Wonder of the World off her list.

Bayasabhad itself lay not far ahead, and Dany could see some of it in the distance, built up and into the mountains, like an oasis of gold and white. There were many more warrior women, and a few men, on patrol here than in the caves or on the approach. No one stopped them, however. They were free to ride in pride over a wide winding road cut into the side of the mountain, passing travelers headed back west and more merchants by the roadside.

When the city became clear up ahead, she ordered her standard raised to announce her arrival: a fine banner of black and red heralded her entry, adorned with a three-headed dragon. Just the sight of it filled Dany with pride. The Great Fathers of Bayasabhad and Lin’s Strange People had bid her welcome, and _The Last Targaryen_ had finally arrived to hear their offer.

 

 

 

 

. . .

(16) Jon

. . .

Jon saw the dragon banners before he did the Dragon Queen, much less the dragons themselves. Her entourage were the remains of her little _khalassar_ , he had been told; they were not many, more women and children than warriors, but those who _had_ followed her through the hell of the Red Waste and survived were fanatically loyal. How could they fail to be, when they were among the few who had seen the rebirth of dragons in this world?

All Jon saw, though, was a rabble under a hateful banner of red and black.

The Targaryens were all half-mad, it was said in the North, even as young boys played and dreamed of being Daeron or Aegon, the Dragonknight or the Conciliator. Those were the exceptions, though, and for every astute Viserys there was a cruel Maegor, for every wise Jaehaerys there was a mad Aerys. The goodwill and even admiration - for the Conqueror _was_ still admired in the North for all that he humbled it – that had been accumulated over centuries had been well spent by the time the Mad King came around. It was in deep in debt when that same Mad King viciously murdered lordly Starks in the Red Keep and when his wretch of a son stole away men’s noble daughters.

 **That** was what Jon thought of, when he saw the three-headed banners of Daenerys Targaryen fluttering in the wind. That this family, this threat to the realm, was still alive and like the Blackfyres, they were ever-plotting to return home in Fire and Blood.

 _‘They are not all dead and gone. One remains_.’

Not that the Stranger or his people seemed to care overmuch.

The Great Fathers of Bayasabhad welcomed the so-called Mother of Dragons that very night with a grand feast and a magnificent show. For the latter, they defaulted to their usual displays of martial skill and valor. The Ghiscari were proud of their fighting pits, Jon had heard, and of their disciplined Unsullied. Bayasabhad wasted no space on such follies. Instead, they had games of skill and chance and battles aplenty, though none were purposeful bloodsports to the death. It reminded Jon more than anything of the tournaments and melees of the South he had read about, except instead of jousts, they fired bows from horseback or mid-jump, and instead of a melee, they had ranked battles one after another to determine a final champion.

For a second time, the city was lit up in celebration, though this time the fires were made to burn in black and red, to honor the dragon lords, who had oft been friends of Hyrkoon against the peoples of the west, like Ghis. Kites were flown in imitation of the young dragons of Daenerys Targaryen: one black, one green and one white. The Dragon Queen was said to have been delighted by his display, and by the sight of a hundred imitation dragons in the sky.

A feast followed, and the Great Fathers spared few expenses, though they cared little for what a Westerosi would call courtly necessities. Instead of a proper hall, the food was served out in the open in a courtyard awash with flags and grisly trophies, and the cooks of great families loudly and openly competed for favor and acclaim. Instead of sweet cakes and meat pies, they roasted whole pigs, cut open and splayed out and mounted on a lattice of metal skewers over hot coals. The skin of the pig crackled and split as it was unveiled and laughing eunuchs drizzled the roasting meat with a sauce made of its own juices. Guests were free to cut off slices to eat then and there, or to cradle their cuts in edible paper called _filo_.

Elsewhere, a small wild fowl was served out of clay pots, spiced with peppers, ginger, cumin and great chunks of onion. A Yitish chef in white and red loudly proclaimed to all who could hear that it was the finest food in all the world, and only true men could finish a serving without tears or a drink of water. Anyone who approached, he dared to try his dish. Another Yitish man, set up just feet away, damned him to all the hells, for his rice was a dish invented by an Emperor in the dawn of days, and perfected over five thousand years, the very height of culinary cuisine.

Perhaps the goats had the roughest time of it. The men and women of Hyrkoon _did_ love their huge and vicious mountain goats, known to counter-attack hunters in angry herds of up to fifty, and they served it in soups and on flatbreads, with smoked goat’s milk cheese and spinach in crispy meat buns. They served it rolled in thick leaves with nuts, especially walnuts, and cooked so tender it fell apart in your mouth before you could even bite down. They served it with imported olives from the Slaver Cities in a salad of wild greens gathered from mountain passes, especially hoary bittercress, pickled roseroot, and chanterelles, a delicacy of the Bones exported to the west and east at great profit.

It was a true feast, a cornucopia of meats, and _naturally_ Ghost ate something strange and threw up.

Which had the added benefit of meaning that Jon could still sort of taste it in his mouth, too. It was one of the benefits of being a warg, _truly_. After that incident, Ghost spent the rest of the night in the kennels and away from anything spicy. For some reason he was not as discerning these days as he had been in Winterfell. Jon privately blamed the Strangers. Back at the compound, too many of them gave Ghost snacks when no one was looking. _The women especially_.

Alone, Jon attended the feast as was requested of him, but he had never been one to mingle, and in a way being a potential center of attention was more terrible sounding than just being ignored, which he had at least gotten used to back home. He was nothing like the Great Fathers who bellowed and boasted to one another. They reminded him too much of the Greatjon. _Gods_. The Umbers would’ve _loved_ this place, except for all the ball-cutting.

Jon was perfectly content sitting by himself, nursing a dark orange beer.

“Well, someone’s the life of the party.”

“Her father killed my grandfather,” Jon told John, glancing over at the Stranger and sipping from his iron flagon of ale. The locals brewed their beer bitter and strong and it tasted strange compared to the ales of the North.

“I know, it’s ironic,” John muttered, having a flagon of the same drink in his hands. “But I don’t think that’s the reason why you’re sitting on the sidelines.”

Jon frowned at him, not seeing the irony. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, and took a long drink. “You know, my grandfather was killed too? Marauders.” His eyes tightened with emotion, and Jon recognized it: it was the same tightness he had seen, once or twice, in the eyes of his father when Lyanna or Brandon were mentioned. It was the same look in the eyes of many of his brothers when anyone brought up the wildlings.

“We’ve told you we’re powerful, and we are… to you, we may as well be gods…” John scoffed. “But we’re not alone up there. The fucking Marauders were in space long before we were. They’re like the Dothraki down here. Nomads. God damned savages. A band of them seized a Habitat in Hellespont when it was about half-built. Our people fell back and let them pillage the structure for alloys, but that wasn’t enough… this time they wanted hosts, too. So standard operating procedure was to fight to the last man. Which they did. And they all died.”

“But one day,” John promised, a dark look in his eyes. “Mark my words, one day we’ll burn them from the sky, every sapient and every spore, like the cancer they are. Creatures like that do not belong in an orderly universe. I just hope I live long enough to see it.”

Jon gulped, realizing something else. “Creatures?”

John’s dark look was compounded with a similarly sinister grin, one of the few Jon had seen him with.

“Did you think we were alone?” He shook his head. “Regardless, I brought it up because I don’t think you’re _really_ all that torn up about the Targaryens. I’m still angry because I remember my grandfather. I loved him. For you, all this is just history from a book. You never knew Rickard or Brandon Stark. I think you never gave the Targaryens more than a second’s thought until you came here. You didn’t even know this one was alive until we told you about her.”

Jon’s frown was a tight line, broken only when he sighed again and took a drink from his ale.

“So, what’s _really_ on your mind?” John asked, pressing. “Hm?”

For a while, for quite a while, Jon said nothing. He seriously considered not answering at all. Sniffing, he tightened the clasps of his black cloak and found comfort in it, and in his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch. He was glad, in that moment, that he still wore black, though the uniform had been cleaned up by the Stranger’s seamstresses, the iron belts and buckles replaced with sky-castle steel, the leather replaced where it could just have been patched, and the whole thing cleaned, because gods-forbid the Strangers had to deal with anything that smelled foul or had even a single mite or flea in it. At least they had not embellished it any, but at times he still felt less a crow and more a black popinjay.

“What do your people want from her?” Jon asked, when it became clear John wasn’t leaving his side until he got an answer. “Why is she here?”

“Daenerys Targaryen is special… like you and your siblings,” John said, looking out over the crowd. Just as before, he was rather non-descript looking, of unremarkable height and weight and build. He kept clean-shaven, as did many of the Strangers. His attire was decidedly foreign by Hyrkoon standards, but the waistcoat and shirt were doublet-like, and only his dark blue single-breasted overcoat seemed to be strange to both worlds, east and west. Shedding the coat, he could’ve walked down a street anywhere in Westeros and drawn no particular attention.

“Special?” Jon asked. “What does that even _mean?_ ” He explained, but rhetorically, “Special? We’re wargs, I know, but there are other wargs. We’re the only family with skinchanger siblings, but that isn’t all there is, else you’d have stolen all of us away. You need not have even waited for Lord Stark to die. You could have done it any time you wanted. Life down here would’ve gone on.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” John argued, but shrugged. “But you’re right, too. There _is_ more to it than just that. We’ve been looking for people with potential, too, and we want to shape the next generation of leaders.”

He took another drink and cupped the flagon pensively in his hands. “Too many of the old guard are dogmatic and inflexible. Even if we had permission to go forward with the uplift when Robert was alive, it would have been preferable to use his son, instead. Unfortunately, his son isn’t even his son and he’s a burgeoning psychopath to boot. From what I’ve read, Tommen is pliable enough, but not really up to the task. Don’t know about the girl…”

“Are we to be your cat’s paws, then?” Jon asked, and felt a twinge of fear. “Your servants?”

“All men serve,” John answered, deadly serious as he looked to the side at Jon. “There’s even a phrase for it here in Essos: _valar dohaeris_. Have you heard it before? Essos is a disappointment in many ways, but they got that right. Our duty is to the people, the ‘people’ being humanity as a whole, and to the state that represents the will and power of the people and the race-entire. So, yes, in that respect you and your family will be expected to serve… to fight and bleed and rule, to pull your people up out of savagery and join us. And if any of you are incapable of it, we will replace you with someone better.”

Jon growled at that but also knew there was no point trying to fight it. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was a bad thing; the Strangers were already sending aid to the Watch, and it was to the Watch that he now belonged. He was a Shield of the Realm, not a Stark or even a Westerosi. He was a sworn man of the Watch.

The Strangers were frightening in many ways, not the least that they took it for granted that all of Westeros and Essos would one day be a part of them, _like them_ , but at least they understood how and when to use words and enticements. Indeed, they seemed to greatly favor them. Those they disliked, with a few exceptions, they simply refrained from patronizing.

Time would tell, he supposed.

In the meantime, **survival** was the most important thing: for the **Watch** , for **Westeros** , for the **_Living_** , if the Free Folk were to be believed. It was probably a fool’s hope to imagine that the wights he had seen were an anomaly, scarce to be seen again in his lifetime. If they made it past the Wall…

“Come on,” John ordered.

“Come on and what?” Jon grumbled, not wanting to move.

“If you’re not going to mingle a little, I’ll have to force you,” John said, and bodily picked Jon up off his seat, lifting him by the upper arm. Jon grumbled again, waving him off and standing on his own.

“Fine. _Fine_.”

And so, Jon Snow mingled, and it wasn’t _so terrible_ an experience.

No one here knew or cared he was a bastard, or a son of Eddard Stark. No one even knew who Eddard Stark _was_ , here, though many had heard embellished and heroic tales of the Night’s Watch. He was a guest of the Strangers and a foreigner, and women in particular seemed enamored of him and his tales of the chaste watchers on the wall who stoically guarded the Realms of Men… many of which he sanitized slightly while leaving out the rapers and murderers. The Great Fathers had brought quite a few of their most esteemed former-warrior-wives and warrior-daughters with them, and even some of their eunuch brothers. All were eager to hear from the Westerosi about the frigid North and the legendary Wall of Brandon the Builder.

It was perhaps inevitable that they felt the need to introduce him to the other “Northman” at the party. Having lubricated his social muscles with a little liquid courage, it actually took a few seconds for Jon to realize who he was meeting.

“Jorah… the slaver?” Jon blurted out, quickly withdrawing his hand. “Jeor’s son!”

Jorah frowned and lowered his hand. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

The Slaver of Bear Island! Oh yes, Jon knew about him… though honestly, only because of Lord Jeor. He seemed to have survived exile in Essos well enough. Jorah wore well maintained armor instead of dress clothes, no different in that respect than the armor many Great Fathers wore to this same party, and despite the lines on his face and the slightly receding hairline he appeared hale and hearty. He wore about his shoulders a cloak of green and black, the colors of House Mormont. Frowning at the exile, Jon was surprised to realize he could see the family resemblance with Jeor, especially around the jaw.

“You should not wear those colors, Ser,” Jon said, frostily, and the Hyrkoon around them seemed to be surprised by the ill reception the two countrymen had for one another. They began to murmur.

“Nor you bear that sword,” Ser Jorah growled, resting his palm on the pommel of his own longsword. “I recognize the cross guard, though not the rest. How did you come by it, black brother?”

“It was a gift from a great man… the Lord Commander,” Jon answered, likewise resting his hand on the sword’s wolf-head pommel. “You may have heard of him?”

“More like you stole it from him,” Jorah sneered, fingers flexing and easing towards the hilt. “ _Snow_ , was it?”

“I saved his life and he gave it to me,” Jon kept one eye on the man’s hand, and tensed, shifting his legs so he could draw if needs be. None made moves to stop them. The barbarians of Hyrkoon were quite content to let duels and fights break out at a feast. They found it entertaining. If guests tried to fight without weapons, others would provide them just for a laugh.

“Fear not,” Jon added, “I shall return it to House Mormont, as Lord Jeor wished, when at last I meet a _noble son_ of that house.”

“Bastard,” Jorah snarled.

“Says the slaver,” Jon spat back.

“Here’s the situation: a black bear and a dire-wolf fight. Both are large adult males. The fight takes place in a dinner party on level terrain. Who wins?”

“The dragon, who roasts them both.”

“Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah immediately stood down, his hand falling away from his sword. He bowed his head and stepped back. Jon scoffed, but also let his hand fall away and his body relax.

Standing off to the side was the Dragon Queen herself, along with one of her advisors, a Yitish woman, and a man in white. Daenerys Targaryen was, as everyone claimed, a stunning beauty, though it was a frosty cold beauty compared to Ygritte, or so Jon thought on first impressions. Her eyes were a vivid violet, her skin pale with just a slight tan and her hair silver-gold, bundled up in elaborate braids. Aside from a shawl around her neck, her dress was ivory-white with tiny pearls, delicate and rather sheer, though given the fact that it bared one of her breasts for all to see, he wagered she didn’t consider that much of a problem. He quickly averted his gaze.

Her advisor was less scandalously dressed, thank the gods. Her silk dress hugged her slim body tightly, making it look rather difficult to walk in, but at least it wasn’t _indecent_. It did leave her arms bare, however, and it was decorated with blue lace and tiny bows. While Daenerys went barefoot in her gown, her advisor wore slippers of a sort. The Lady herself was of a height with her Queen, with grey eyes and long dark hair dyed blue midway, just past her shoulders.

“Hello, John,” the Yitish woman said.

Jon was about to respond, when the Stranger behind him did instead.

“Hello, Lin,” the Stranger said, taking her hand and gently bringing it to his lips.

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, please, don’t go native on me now!”

“And this is Daenerys Targaryen,” John said, repeating the gesture with the Mad King’s daughter. She nodded at the propriety, but Jon noticed her glancing back at him.

“You must be one of our mysterious friends,” she said with dignity and poise. “It is always a pleasure to meet travelers from _so very_ far away.”

“Oh?” the Stranger wondered and looked for a moment over at the Yitish woman, Lin. She shrugged.

“And who is this?” Daenerys inquired, and Jon knew he meant him.

“Jon Snow,” Jon greeted her, but did not bow his head. “A simple brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“The Night’s Watch is a noble calling,” an armored man said from behind the Queen. “But it is custom for all Westerosi, even those of the black brotherhood, to address their Queen as Your Grace.”

“That is correct, Ser…?” Jon asked, knowing he was escalating the situation a little by implying this Targaryen was no Queen of Westeros yet.

“Ser Barristan,” the man answered. He was not so easily baited as Ser Jorah, but it was clear he intended for those who were due respect to his Queen to give it. He stepped forward, armored in white like a Kingsguard, though the armor itself looked new and slightly foreign, with more ostentation than normal. On closer inspection, Jon was certain it was of Hyrkoon make, probably purchased and modified just today.

“Ser Barristan... Selmy?”

“Aye.”

Jon schooled his expression, keeping it neutral. “Well, at least the Queen has a proper Kingsguard by her side.” He dipped his head. “My apologies for forgetting my manners… Your Grace.”

“The Targaryens have long been friends of the Night’s Watch,” Daenerys proclaimed. “I wish to be a friend as well. It seems you are also a friend of a friend of a friend. Lady Lin?”

“This is him,” she confirmed, and turned to the sulking Ser Jorah. “We’re all friends here, so let’s not fight over his sword, okay?”

“It is the sword of my house,” Jorah insisted, but also sighed. “But I am not of my house. I know that well. I left it behind for a reason.”

“Your doing so was an honor Jeor conveyed to me,” Jon said, giving the man that much, that little. A Valyrian sword could have fetched a fortune, even if it had just been sold to the Lannisters, who had lost Brightroar centuries ago.

“Does he still live?” Jorah asked, then. “Jeor? My father?”

“Would that he did,” Jon answered, eyes downcast. “Jeor Mormont was a good man. He shared his last words with Samwell Tarly, who later wrote them down. I have not read them myself, so I know not what they are, only that they are for you.”

“Dead…?” Jorah sounded momentarily lost, as if he couldn’t imagine a world without his father in it. Sometimes Jon felt the same when he thought of his own father. “ **How?** ” he demanded, a hard edge to his voice. _Who?_

Jon told him the truth. “A man named Ollo, a brother of the Watch turned traitor. Lord Jeor led a great ranging North to the First of the First Men. What happened after that… is unknown. Samwell’s letter said wights, not wildlings, and I trust Sam. Three hundred men fortified the Fist and of those only four and forty survived to regroup at Craster’s Keep. Ollo and other traitors were among them. There was a fight over food, Lord Jeor tried to keep order, and was stabbed during the mutiny. Qhorin Halfhand is Lord Commander now and he honors Lord Jeor.”

Jorah’s face was full of fury, but it was impotent. He could do nothing about events past, much less events so far away. “This man?” he asked in a dark, cold rage. “This Ollo?”

“Still at Craster’s Keep, north of the Wall, as far as we know,” Jon admitted, not proud of that fact. He wanted justice for Jeor as much as anyone. Traitors to the Watch, all of them. Jeor had been a good man. “The Free Folk will find them, if we do not. The Free Folk or the Others will take them.”

Ser Jorah gritted his teeth, on the verge of saying more, when a hand touched his shoulder in sympathy. It was Daenerys. He seemed shocked and more than a little surprised by the gesture.

“I’m sorry, Jorah,” she said softly.

“I would have liked to have spoken to him, one last time,” Jorah told her, quietly, though Jon overheard. He glanced down at his feet. Jorah was not the only one who regretted not having last words with his father.

Jon kept silent after that, content to listen as the others talked and led them to a parlor away from the bustling courtyard celebrations. He felt out of place, a simple man of the Watch and a bastard to boot, here among Queens and legends of the Kingsguard and Strangers from the heavens. He acted the part of a fly on the wall and simply listened.

Daenerys Targaryen was hopeful for more assistance in getting to Westeros, and she took some time to confirm that Lady Lin and Ser John knew one another and could confirm each other’s stories. She seemed surprised when the Strangers explained that Jon, and the other Starks, were wargs who were bonded to dire-wolves, the sigil of their house. He noticed that Daenerys looked at him differently after that, though whether it was because he was a warg or because he was a Stark – one of the so-called “Usurper’s Dogs” – he wasn’t sure.

Her confidence ebbed slightly when she learned that Robb Stark was also receiving their support.

A fact Jon privately found amusing.

“Why was I not told about this before?” she growled at Lady Lin, and then to Ser John. “You cannot support us both!”

“Ser, good Lady,” Ser Barristan argued in her defense. “Daenerys Targaryen is the rightful heir, not Robb Stark.”

“And her _cousin_ , Stannis Baratheon, insists the same, based on precedents of attaintment and favoring male descendants over female ones,” John the Stranger explained, and he held up a hand to forestall any further semantics from the aged Kingsguard. “While we’re not going to elevate some random peasant or noble to the throne, we’re also not overmuch concerned by who is or isn’t the ‘rightful’ king or who should have the throne ‘by rights.’ Westeros and Yi Ti are both in the middle of major succession crises. I am confident that whoever wins in the end will justify it after the fact.”

“What about honor?” Barristan insisted, and Jon couldn’t help but agree in principle, at least a little bit. Even if he kept silent. Even if he loved Robb. “If it doesn’t matter who is the rightful king, then the office is hollow. If a kingship means nothing, then the _realm_ means nothing. It is all just a mummer’s farce.”

“Who decided Prince Viserys should rule over Laenor Velaryon?” John asked, and answered, “The lords, who held the power to make that decision? The gods who acted through the lords? Fate? The nature of rulership and the divine right of kings is a matter for another time.”

“I have dragons!” Daenerys reminded them.

“And Robb Stark has an army, a reputation, and influence,” John calmly informed her. “All things you lack at the moment. He has _also_ already agreed to our proposals and proven to be a reasonable young man. We are confident we can work with him. In any case, re-unification can occur through yourselves or in the worse-case through your children.”

“No. No! That is unacceptable!” Daenerys declared. “I… it…!”

Lady Lin chose that moment to pull her aside. “A moment, please.”

“You can’t let this happen, Lin…!” Jon heard Daenerys say, and then the two women were whispering, and it was impossible to overhear.

Jon closed his eyes and sighed. None of this had anything to do with him. Why was he even here? So that Daenerys could promise support for the Night’s Watch? She could do that and be done with it in less than a minute. And what did she have, besides? Some gold, yes, but in truth no more than the Glovers or Ryswells, probably less.

She had dragons.

Yes. She had dragons. Jon wondered how dragonflame would do against wights.

But she didn’t seem the type to put everything else aside and fly North, and her dragons were still juveniles. How long did it take a dragon to mature? He tried to remember the tales of the Targaryens from before the Dance, back when there had been dozens of dragons. Did they mature faster or slower than their riders?

“Lin?” he heard John inquire as the two women came back.

“We have an issue, a possible issue, but we can fix it,” Lin answered him, and Daenerys seemed breathless for some reason.

“What issue?” John asked. Ser Barristan, silent as a statue, seemed curious as well.

“A _private_ issue, and one we can fix, _John_ ,” Lin said, firmly.

Oh ho. Jon knew that tone! It seemed pretty much universal among woman-kind.

“Can you truly?” Daenerys asked, her voice low.

“Absolutely,” Lin promised her.

“Fine. Back to the Kingdoms, then?” John suggested, crossing his arms impatiently over all the secrecy.

“Yes. I… I am willing to… _cooperate_ ,” Daenerys told him, with a deep breath. “Ser Barristan, what do you know of this Robb Stark?”

The Kingsguard considered the question for a few moments. “My knowledge is limited to before I left and what I heard in Pentos. He is a skilled young man, by most accounts, and a bit of a gambler on the battlefield. All his greatest victories have been achieved by surprise and maneuver…” He coughed, realizing she probably wasn’t interested in that analysis of the man. “He is said to be honorable, like his father, Eddard.”

“The Usurper’s man,” Daenerys growled, but said, “Never mind. Please, continue.”

“His men fight for him, willingly, even eagerly. They call him the Young Wolf. He fights from the front alongside his dire wolf… he has no Kingsguard, last I checked, but he has a retinue of young heirs from Northern and Riverlands houses. They fight together. He is said to have more Tully looks than Stark, like his sister Sansa: blue eyes, reddish hair. He’s roughly a year older than you, Your Grace, and he is currently engaged to a Frey girl, I know not which one. There are many.”

“He’s engaged,” Daenerys stated, and turned to John the Stranger. “Well, it seems that’s that.”

“We’ll deal with that engagement, if the time comes,” John promised, and Jon felt an involuntary shiver.

What exactly did _that_ mean? That they would twist Robb’s arm? An engagement was a matter of honor. Robb wouldn’t willingly break it. No. He wouldn’t, then again Jon sensed that Robb’s own opinion on it wouldn’t matter either way. What if he refused?

“A Kingdom of the North and a Kingdom of the South isn’t a bad arrangement,” Lady Lin suggested. “If need be, we can just unite them after the war, have a King and Kaiser sort of situation.”

Dany blinked, not understanding the reference. “King and… what?”

“Kaiserlich und königlich,” John explained, but with a strange and foreign tongue. “It means ‘Imperial and Royal’ and refers to the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary, which ruled part of our original realm something like four hundred years ago. The monarchs who were ‘imperial and royal’ reigned simultaneously as both Emperor of Austria and the King of Hungary, joining the two states in union. It is similar to how the Targaryens eventually absorbed Dorne, through marriage, except instead of one crown superseding the other, the kings and queens wore both.”

“I thought you had no Kings?” Jon broke his silence.

“This is all the distant past for us,” Lady Lin answered him. “Not exactly ancient history, but still… a long time ago, by our standards.”

“So, we’d be Kings of North and South?” Daenerys asked. “Or our children would be?”

“A united realm is better than a disunited one, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a unitary state, like the Seven Kingdoms of the past,” John argued. “Not that the Seven Kingdoms were honestly that united to begin with, but that’s a different issue. Back home, the ancient realm of France was a freehold with no king, yet it was in union with Andorra up to the time we left and had been so for about a thousand years.”

“Always with the trivia… there’s the United Kingdom route, too,” Lady Lin added in. “I’d bet they’re still around, unless the UN did something monumentally stupid and got everyone killed.”

“Knowing them, they probably did.” John cupped his chin and sniffed, disdainfully. Jon was confused. What the hells was a You-En?

Daenerys closed her eyes and thought for a moment before answering the Strangers.

“I know you dislike my saying it such,” she began, “but the fact remains: The Seven Kingdoms _are_ mine by rights. **Mine**. By **Rights**. Forged by Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Good. One of those Kingdoms is The North.” She glanced quickly over at Jon, but only for a moment. “Torrhen knelt to Aegon, and so long as the blood of Aegon flows through Targaryen veins his oath and the oaths of his descendants are binding. If this Robb Stark knows honor, then he will honor Torrhen, and all the other Starks who shed blood or swore vows to the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne. If Robb Stark has honor, he will kneel to me… and perhaps I will consider a union, then.”

Jon stifled a laugh.

“Does that amuse you, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asked, glaring at him.

“I’ve been told I know nothing,” Jon answered with a grin. “But I know Robb won’t bow to you. Your family was attainted by Robert Baratheon, a dear friend of my father, and the Lords Paramount all agreed to it. Every single one of them. To Robb, you may be a Targaryen, but that doesn’t make you a Queen. Your dragons don’t, either.”

“And you would know?” Daenerys asked, now facing him with her entire body, hands on her hips. Jon pointedly tried not to look at her exposed breast and instead turned his eyes upward to the sky, making a pretense of star-watching.

“Robb treated me like a brother. A true brother,” Jon explained. “He didn’t care I was natural-born. I know him well, so yes, actually, I would know.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope this could be ironed out in just one evening,” John the Stranger decided. “But you’ve heard our words, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I have,” she replied, looking back to the man. “And I understand the weight of them, Ser. I am a young girl, new to this world, but I am no fool. And… if you can do what Lady Lin assures me you can do…”

Lady Lin nodded, and Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest. Jon was relieved. It meant he could stop trying to find the seven wanderers in the sky.

“If you can, it will go a long way towards easing my fears,” Daenerys concluded. “Very well. Let us all think on matters for the night. Lady Lin?”

“Right behind you,” her advisor promised.

Ser Barristan merely fell in lockstep without a word.

“A difficult woman,” Jon said, when the trio were out of earshot. “She’ll be trouble.”

“Because she’s headstrong and entitled?” John asked, and the two men headed back to the party for another ale.

“Worse. She’s a _Targaryen_. The dragonlords were stubborn at best, crazy at worst, and stupid on average. I heard that somewhere and I believe it to be true now that I’ve met one.”

“Jon…”

“What?”

“I think you’d be surprised what some Targaryens are like.”

“Well, there was Maester Aemon…”

“Exactly. Maester Aemon.” John swiped two clean flagons out of a barrel and tossed one to the man of the Nights Watch. “He’s one example.”

The two men dunked their flagons into another open barrel, this one (once) full of ale.

“She’s a beauty, though, just like they say,” Jon remarked, and for some reason John coughed into his cup. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” John glanced away. “A beauty, is she?”

“A cold beauty,” Jon conceded, taking a drink from his ale, “ _and_ a difficult personality. I wouldn’t want to marry her.”

John just muttered something under his breath at that, Jon couldn’t make out what. He changed the topic instead, telling Jon about how they planned to have some further tests with the Glass Candles tomorrow and how he should get used to being around Daenerys. They also wanted him to try and interact with one of the dragons, to see how it would react to a warg. John also suggested keeping Ygritte away from her, lest things get too out of hand. That last suggestion was easy to agree to. Jon could only imagine those two butting heads.

After that, they had the little side-trip of an expedition to make to those ruins…

Apparently, the magic in their blood was to be of some use there.

Jon’s thoughts, though, strayed to his brothers, and Robb in particular. After a week or so, hopefully, Daenerys Targaryen would be Robb’s problem and not Jon’s, though he honestly wasn’t sure how his half-brother should handle her. Breaking the betrothal with the Freys was the obvious choice, and Daenerys would probably be amenable to a match if it got her what she wanted. But would the lords and people of the North accept her? The Targaryens were not well loved in the North. As for the Riverlands, Jon had no idea, but he doubted it was too different.

It would also mean committing to a fight to put her on the Iron Throne, whether the North remained independent or not. Was that what Robb wanted? Should they spill more blood, not even just Northern blood but the blood of men from all over the Kingdoms, just to put another dragon on the throne? What would the other houses think? It was all a level of scheming that flew over Jon’s head. Then, on top of it all, there were the wights and the wildlings beyond the Wall.

Jon sighed.

He was a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. As long as the realms were secure, and the dead men _stayed dead,_ he would accept it. Often times, the oath was a burden. Occasionally, in times like this, it actually seemed like a relief. Whatever happened, he would do what he could to protect the realms of men.

“To the Realms of Men,” Jon said, on a lark, and lifted his flagon. “Or, the single realm of men for you.”

“To the Commonwealth of Man,” John said, and toasted.

The ale was foreign tasting and a little bitter, Jon decided, but you could get used to it.

 


	8. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters  
> (17) Pinkmaiden I (12k)
> 
> Chapter 1 of the Battle of Pinkmaiden  
> There are a few POVs here, primarily those of Olyvar Frey (Robb's squire) and Dickon Tarly (Randyll's squire)

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Dickon I

. . .

The men had captured a giant.

Or so they boasted. “Behold, the northman giant!” “The Stark giant is here!” Dickon Tarly was a mere squire, but even he laughed in a mixture of relief and scorn when the “giant” was brought into the camp in chains. It was a gangly and half-finished thing, made of wood and straw and leather links, old rags to give it the likeness of skin and clothes, replete with a face of plaster. Wheels attached to a cart and scaffold on the bottom allowed it to be cleverly manipulated, either by rolling and propping it into position, or folding it up at the waist for transport.

The scouts had found it in the latest skirmish with the Blackfish’s outriders, after a short battle at a half-abandoned camp. Some supplies had been taken, but nothing more impressive than the two giants, one of which had been burned by the Blackfish. The remaining false-giant had been festooned with some makeshift chains and brought back to the vanguard with aplomb and trumpets.

Naturally, Dickon’s father was less than amused.

“Make sure every man has a good look at it,” Randyll Tarly ordered his captains, “let them see the cheap mummery for what it is. Then burn it and be done with it. We have a war to win.”

They rode hard that day, same as every day, giving chase to the Young Wolf across the southern Riverlands. Robb Stark moved fast but so did Randyll Tarly, and the Riverlands were their cyvasse board. The Blackwater Rush ran parallel to the Gold Road and much of it flowed out of the Westerland hills and mountains through the southernmost Riverlands. North of it, the Red Fork roared and tumbled with rapids. The land here was frequently waterlogged, with thick copses of trees and small woods dominating more elevated hills and thick grasses shrouding longer stretches of open terrain.

They’d nearly cornered the King in the North near Tumbler’s Falls, but he stole a march on them and his outriders led them on a bloody chase. That day Dickon’s father had worked the men twice as hard, driving them onward. They grumbled, Dickon knew, but none broke ranks, deserted or complained loud enough for their captains to hear. Lord Tarly never hesitated to make examples of those who broke discipline, ranks, or curfew. As his only remaining son – with Sam in the Night’s Watch – Dickon tried his best to be an exemplar of virtue for all the other squires to follow. He marched hard, took pride in the equipment and horses entrusted to his care, and used what spare time he had to learn from his father or to practice with sword, shield, lance and mace. He’d have tried for the bow, too, but his father disdained it. It was ironic, given the banner of their house was a Huntsman.

“Pinkmaiden,” Randyll said that night, as they set camp. “He’s headed to Pinkmaiden.”

His captains were around him, as they were every night, having reported in on the status of the army. Randyll Tarly was no Renly Baratheon or Mace Tyrell. He had no interest in games or niceties. He did not hold melees or tournaments. His tent did not have fine pillows or silver lace or a harp. When he called the army to order and asked for reports, the lords who answered to him spoke in alphabetical order.

That was how Randyll Tarly waged war.

“Pinkmaiden?” Titus Peake considered, stroking his chin. “I see. I’ve heard there are prisoners there.”

Titus was the Lord of Starpike and head of House Peake, whose men bore a standard of three black castles on orange. They only held one of those ancestral castles these days, though. He was well muscled man with a short beard and a longer mustache, and his squire, Leo, was from one of the Lannister branches, a relative of Titus’ wife Margot, herself a Lannister cousin.

“ _Westermen_ prisoners,” Arwyn Oakheart said, the only woman at the table.

Dickon knew his father would rather not have any women at all in _his_ vanguard, neither lordly nor common, but the men needed wenches and womanfolk to mind them, and Lady Oakheart was the head of House Oakheart and the noble Lady of Old Oak. She could not be denied. Her youngest son was a Kingsguard, yet she had only grandchildren to inherit and none were fit for war, so she rode to war by herself. Dickon had heard there were terrifying Mormont women fighting for the Young Wolf, but Lady Arwyn was a small and delicate woman, with green eyes and light brown hair that had only begun to fade. Her family arms were three green oak leaves on gold, and her banners were second in number only to the Tarly men in the field. She was always kind to young squires, Dickon knew.

“I thought Pinkmaiden was a ruin?” Lord Branston Cuy was the Lord of Sunflower Hall, a short fellow built like a barrel with a brown-almost-red goatee and a widow’s peak. The Cuys were a proud family of the Reach, though Dickon had never met one before riding to join His Former Grace Renly Baratheon’s host. Six flowers on blue were stitched to the breast of his white doublet and his squire was a mild-mannered teenager by the name of Robert.

“It must surely be. The Mountain burned it to get at the Pipers,” Lord Arthur Ambrose scoffed, disgusted. “We’ve seen his handiwork with our own eyes. I’m amazed there’s anything left, even enough to cage a _dog_ , much less a pampered Westerman.”

Lord Arthur Ambrose was the head of House Ambrose, and his influence was intimately tied to the mother of his children, namely Lady Alysanne Hightower. Alysanne was the daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower, perhaps the second most powerful man in the Reach after Lord Mace. Given that the Redwynes, Tyrells, Fossoways and Hightowers were all entwined by marriage, anyone getting a toe in benefited a great deal. Without his lady wife, neither Lord Ambrose nor his squire, his son Alyn, would likely be present in this war council. His house was represented by a yellow field strewn with fiery red ants like you find in Dornish border.

“Pinkmaiden protects the only way across the Red Fork for miles,” Randyll told them, pointing to a small castle on the map splayed out before them, part of it dangling off the edge of the table. “All this will be for naught if he crosses.”

“We can corner him there, if we’re quick,” Lord Cuy suggested. “The terrain ahead is hilly, but clear. The foot won’t like it much, but we can make good time and it will take a few days to get an army across in skiffs.”

“We have an advantage in knightly arms and armor. We could always ride ahead…” Lord Peake considered.

“No,” Randyll said, firmly. “I won’t ride, unsupported, into a trap. We tried this near Tumbler’s Falls and lost a hundred men to an ambush.”

“Pinkmaiden, then,” Lady Oakheart agreed, leaning forward and resting her small hands on the table. “We shall settle this then and there.”

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar I

. . .

Pinkmaiden.

Thank the Old Gods and the New for Pinkmaiden.

The army reached the castle and town soon after the sun set and the moon and the red comet lit up the sky, dyeing the former the color of dry blood. The men were tired but in good spirits, all things considered, and they whooped and cheered at the sight of signal fires and a fully prepared camp waiting for them. They would not have to crowd into pitched tents and eat cold rations tonight. There were barrels of wine and water and ale, and the smell of hearty stew in the wind as they approached. The other third of the army was waiting for them and had everything ready. Northmen and Riverlanders mingled and ate and drank. More than a few were encouraged to see the quartermaster or the launderers to replace patched or damaged armor or dirty linens.

Olyvar saw a contingent of Frey banners as he rode by, close behind Robb Stark. The King of the North and Trident was two years Olyvar’s junior, and not even a knight himself, technically, but the Young Wolf seemed larger than life and far older than his actual years. He rode harder than any man Olyvar knew, disdaining niceties and eating and mingling with the men. Grey Wind stalked alongside his master, too, eyes and ears keen for anything out of the ordinary. Usually, Grey Wind traveled with the scouts, but when there was a fight he was almost always near the King, fighting in tandem with him or the other companions.

The huge direwolf feared no man or beast, it was said. Men spoke of the wolf with equal parts fear and reverence. One night in the Westerlands it returned to camp dragging a partly eaten lion, dropping it unceremoniously on a fire to cook. Like a man returning from the bush with a fresh-caught hare. In the Riverlands, there were rumors that Grey Wind sometimes met with the giant wolf pack of the Gods’ Eye and the great Black Bitch that commanded them, or that she was his mate… but Olyvar considered that unlikely.

Not only had they never been close to the Gods’ Eye, in all his time squiring for the King, he had never seen another wolf, dire or otherwise, in his presence, and Grey Wind did not seem very sociable towards other canines. Only people. Only the King’s Companions. The King himself encouraged this and told them that Grey Wind was trained to understand much of human language. Sometimes it seemed like an exaggeration… Grey Wind was just a _wolf_ after all, but… _other times_ …

Well, this war was already a strange one.

A pair of giants stomped by in long strides, one of them carrying one of the dummies they had made days ago. He seemed to be attached to it. Olyvar secretly wondered if it resembled a female giant. That would certainly put an entertaining twist on why that one fellow carried it around with him long after they’d packed up or abandoned the rest of the dummies.

“Lucas,” King Robb said, as they met up with another rider. It was Lucas Blackwood, the second son of Lord Tytos. He was dark of hair and eye, like most Blackwoods, but amiable and cheerful off the field. Olyvar considered him competent with a lance, but better with a sword, but this also meant he tended to discard his lance a little prematurely. But he wasn’t dead yet, so maybe the older knight was onto something, or at least he knew his strengths.

“Everything’s ready here,” Lucas said, and shrugged. “Almost. The ditches and pits are on schedule, and we have the stakes made, we just need to lash them together into stars. We had trouble with the streams, though. No rain so no luck, the river’s lower than normal. The engineers are working all night to try and fix it.”

Robb nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fine. And the others?”

“Glover, Tallhart, Umber and the Karstark clan are all here, along with my father and the Pipers. Ser Brynden is with his riders but now that you’re back, he should be here shortly. You may not have heard, but Ser Karyl Vance arrived yesterday with an advance of eight hundred men and he brought some sellswords with him, the Iron Shields. The Stormbreakers are here as well, at your blessing.”

“And what are your impressions of them?” Robb asked, as another of his companions rode up to join them: the still wounded Torrhen Karstark. He had barely survived his encounter with the Kingslayer in the Whispering Wood, but Lady Talisa couldn’t keep him abed any longer. He’d demanded a horse and a blade when Robb returned from the Westerlands.

“He means the sellswords?” Torrhen asked, and Vance nodded.

“A man who sells his sword isn’t like to swing it for any cause but his own,” the youngest Karstark heir literally spat, the phlegm arcing through the air. He was bedecked in mail and boiled leather, as if expecting a fight at any moment. Unlike the King, who inherited from his Tully mother, the Karstark brothers all had a very hard-bitten look to them, like the stereotype of Northmen that Olyvar had grown up hearing about. Torrhen’s beard was generous and his eyes flint-like.

“The Stormbreakers have a good reputation, and they _were_ founded by a Tully,” Lucas answered the actual question. “Their Captain, Ser Gyles, keeps good order with his men from what I’ve seen. They’ve kept out of the town and to the camps. Two hundred good horse, two hundred very light, horse archers, a hundred armored foot with bows from a dozen countries.”

“And the Iron Shields?” Robb asked. “I don’t know that group.”

“They came following the smell of Lannister gold.” Lucas frowned at that, but then cracked a smile. “Well, _your gold_ now, Your Grace. Their officers and about forty other men are a-horse, but all the rest are foot. They’ve about two hundred men at arms, a little less than two times that in crossbowmen with those big myrish shields you stick in the ground. There’s no way they made good speed upriver, even with barges. Not with that many foot.”

“Blackwood has the right of it,” Torrhen seconded. “I’d wager they came upriver a week or two ago, looking for a nice blonde fellow to work for. Must’ve been mighty disappointed to find them all indisposed… or in cages.”

“I can use them, regardless. Their Captain?” Robb asked, riding and overlooking Pinkmaiden itself in the faint moonlight. The castle was ruined and burned but still mostly functional. No stores for Winter, though. The Mountain’s men had seen to that, not even stealing the food, just setting it alight.

“Their Captain’s a myrman by the name of Torreo.”

“Torreo,” Robb repeated, committing it to memory. “I’ll meet with them both. Olyvar. Torrhen. You two ride with me. Lucas, get everyone together and meet me in the old solar.” The Young Wolf grimaced and turned his horse around to look out over the dark fields below. His read of the situation was plain and to the point. “Tomorrow, Randyll Tarly will be here with thirty thousand men. If the weather permits, we fight.”

. . .

That night, the King met with his lords and captains over cups and roasted quail. Olyvar was present as well, in cleaned attire, though it was not his place to speak. He was the King’s cupbearer as well as his squire, though he only served the King in this capacity. The group of Northerners, Riverlanders, and two sellsword captains ate quickly and then huddled over a map of the castle environs to plan the battle for tomorrow.

Chief among them after the King was Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish of Riverrun and the Bloody Gate. He was a grizzled man and a hero of the Ninepenny Kings and the Stepstones, his hair gone grey but his sword-arm still strong. His face was lined and weathered like it had been exposed to a Dornish sandstorm and he wore his outrider armor of mail and studded leather. He glared down at the map and the advancing pieces on it representing the Tyrell Vanguard under Tarly.

Next to him, Ser Marq Piper was present representing his father Lord Clement. Ser Marq was tall and dashing, looking very much like a picture of a knight, despite his less than knightly pastimes among the ladies and wine-sinks of the Riverlands. Battle had hardened him and left him with a scar across his cheek and brow, but he still seemed to be eagerly looking forward to the battle. He pointed to another band of enemy riders far to the northeast and the others nodded.

Old Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber were standing side by side, the former deep in thought and the latter boasting and resting his hand on the hilt of the greatsword slung over his shoulder. They were the two largest and meanest looking men in the room, bar none, though Olyvar doubted any man more dangerous than the Blackfish. It was typical for one man to command the van, one the center, and one each the flanks. Robb instead had three men commanding regiments of foot, one man the light riders, and himself the heavy cavalry. Karstark and Umber took it for granted that they would have commands, and indeed they did.

Last but certainly not least of the lords was Tytos Blackwood, lord of Raventree Hall. In the Riverlands, he was well known as a skilled warrior and strategist, with a history not so different from the Blackfish, having done his time in the Stepstones fighting the Golden Company and other cutthroats. Lord Tytos was a tall man with long black hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and an elaborate raven-feather cloak that suited well a lord of Raventree. He’d kept quiet and pensive during most of the talk thus far.

The new arrivals were also here, to formalize their places in the order of battle.

Robett Glover and Lord Helman Tallhart had ridden hard from their positions near Harrenhall under Roose Bolton, who had vacated the east under pressure from the Lannisters. Helman was the lord of Torrhen’s Square in the North and had most recently taken Darry before being ordered west with three hundred horse. He was a fierce looking northman with blue chips of ice for eyes and a strong clean jaw. His companion, Robett, was younger brother to Lord Galbart, but he looked older, with a beard of red and gray and a hard, deeply lined face.

Captain Torreo of the Iron Shields and Ser Gyles of the Stormbreakers were new faces to Olyvar. Gyles had a Westerosi look, but his skin was browned from time in the south and the Disputed Lands, and his cheeks were pockmarked from a brush with plague. He was otherwise a lean and lanky man in worn but functional riveted brigandine. Velvet faulds covered his hips, where he sported a Braavosi sword and twin daggers. Captain Torreo wore a fine blue doublet rather than armor, dressed more for a stately dinner with a King than a war. A myrman, he had short dark hair and brown eyes and a cleanly cut, neat beard that ran like a narrow strip over his chin.

“The final lines are all in place,” the King said, quieting the lords and captains. “The only change I’m making is here, in the rear. Karstark will have the right flank-”

Olyvar saw a stone marker with the Karstark sunburst put down parallel to the road running by Pinkmaiden and into the town. Beside it were other flat rectangular stone pieces with numbers. Pinkmaiden castle held their actual right flank, along with the town, which was behind a small moat fed by the river. The King’s lines stretched from the castle and town in an arc over the road and up to the bend in the river, at the other flank.

“The center will be held by the Umbers,” Robb continued, placing a chained giant piece over the road, in the rough center of the army’s line. “The left will be under the Pipers. Lord Tytos will have the special reserve, which I am moving _here_. Glover, Tallhart… you and your men will be with me.”

“My lords,” he added, looking around at them with cold blue eyes. “There will be hard fighting for all of us, tomorrow. Blood and glory aplenty, I promise you. But _this_ the final disposition of forces. Remember your roles and your oaths and tomorrow night, Gods willing, we will have victory. Aye?”

“Aye!” The men cheered and growled and cursed and raised their cups.

They were committed.

Tomorrow, there would be blood.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Dickon II

. . .

The came upon Pinkmaiden early in the afternoon with ample light left in the day, even as autumn settled on the land and the days shrunk. Dickon followed his father as he took to a hill and surveyed the terrain around the burned castle and town. The Red Fork was virtually unfordable except at a crossing guarded by the castle and the Young Wolf had settled into lines, one anchor up against the river and the other by the castle’s moat and the gates of the town.

“Are those earthworks?” Dickon asked, and his father merely grumbled.

“Come,” he ordered, and rode down to the camp they had made nearby. It had been thrown up in the span of an hour or so, a place to pitch their tents and store their supplies and train.

As they rode to the camp, Dickon passed by ranks of men unrolling pikes and marching with them like a forest of spears. Banners waved in the cool breeze among the pikes: Peake castles, Footly caltrops, Oakheart leaves, Cuy flowers, Risley knights, Caswell centaurs from Bitterbridge, Graceford mothers, Ambrose ants and many more besides, and in a place of honor above them, the mighty Tarly huntsman and Tyrell rose. They were King Joffrey’s army now, but you wouldn’t know it from the banners and pageantry.

Father and son passed by men preparing for battle: men eating a last meal or having a last drink, men checking arms and armor, men joking with friends who could be dead by day’s end, men sitting quietly and lost in their own thoughts, and men listening to holy septons as they blessed and consoled them about the fighting to come. Some few had fought at the Blackwater, cavalry mostly, but most had not made it there in time and were facing battle for the first time. Dickon Tarly was one of them. But they had the advantage of numbers, equipment, chivalry and the blessings of the Seven, so Dickon didn’t let worry or anxiety unman him. He wasn’t like poor Sam.

No man ruled by fear could wear the huntsman on his breast.

“They’re putting up obstacles,” Lady Oakheart observed. They met not in a tent, but in the open air, over the same table and map as before, held in place with tacks.

“We have the advantage in knightly horse,” Lord Ambrose reasoned. “A knight at charge is worth a dozen men-at-arms, and the knights of the Reach are without peer.” He frowned. “We can’t give them time to dig in.”

“Most of the field is dry enough but the stream to the north has been swelled somehow,” Lady Oakheart added, pointing down at the map. “My scouts report that parts are muddy, but they couldn’t get closer. The Pipers and Blackwoods have some sort of slingers… I lost thirty-two men trying to get the lay of the land.”

“You take unnecessary risks, my Lady,” Lord Peake chided her. “You have ridden with us to the battlefield and proven your bravery and commitment to your men. The Mother herself could do no more. Leave matters to us from here on.”

“So long as Oakheart men are in the field, risking their lives, I shall represent them as best I can,” the noble Lady replied, unbending. “I am not so deluded as to imagine I can fight, but…”

“Enough of this,” Randyll Tarly snapped, and the others quieted. He looked over the map with a grim, calculating expression. “I saw them setting up Ibbish horses-” meaning, Dickon knew, wooden spikes set into thick logs and rolled into place as obstacles. “and other obstructions, but only a few.”

“Those star-shaped things,” Lord Cuy spoke up. “They’re too high to jump. I’ve never seen one before, but I’d bet they’re enough to spook a horse.”

“I saw them setting up more of those giants of theirs, too.” Lord Ambrose rolled his eyes. “I’m amazed this trick worked on those fool Westermen.”

“War is won in men’s minds,” Dickon’s father reminded them. “Taking advantage of their superstition is no different than making good use of men’s faith.”

“The ever-pious Lord Tarly,” Lady Oakheart jested. Randyll simply glared at her. He was not one for jests, especially at his expense.

“Look here. They’ve only had a day to prepare,” Lord Peake said, and pointed down at the wooden wolf’s head pieces arrayed before them. “I say we charge one of the flanks. East would be best, to avoid fire from the castle. The Rivermen will buckle if we hit them hard… I’d bet on it. Tywin’s men have already beaten them and burned their lands. I’d wager most just want to go home.”

“I’d wager most that remain want revenge for those burned homes, raped daughters and dead friends,” Lady Oakheart countered. “We mustn’t underestimate them, just because they’ve been set to flight once before.”

“I want a better feel for the terrain, as well,” Tarly considered. “We’ll send in the bowmen.”

Horns blew and the order went out as the noble lords returned to their banners. Dickon carried the huntsman proudly as he followed his father’s destrier, feeling the weight of his armor and arms and the history of House Tarly on his shoulders. They rendezvoused with the vanguard’s cavalry and ascended a small hill to get a slightly better look as men advanced towards the rebel lines.

Past the sea of raised pikes and men numbering in the tens of thousands advanced a more motley assembly of bowmen and crossbowmen. They weaved through the friendly ranks and entered the rougher terrain hastily prepared by the Northmen and their Riverlander allies. They were not a single uniform body of men, but a multitude of different units raised by different houses, standard-bearers sporting the colors and sigils of a dozen castles and keeps that raised them. All across the line they inched forward through the ranks, Dickon could see it all the way up to the flank that nearly abutted the river.

From the tighter Northern ranks came men as well to skirmish. Some were sellswords, with big myrish shields, and others rolled forward with cruder wooden posts. They were gathered up into three large blocks, one for the center and one for each flank. Dickon saw them take up positions and begin to fire. There were distance markers set up on the field that their own scouts could do nothing about and the defenders knew just when to unleash hell.

Against knights, they may have waited… at a hundred yards, few arrows would pierce plate.

Against other bowmen, they fired at range and filled the air with a mix of bolts and arrows. Randyll made a scoffing noise, Dickon heard, when the first volley landed among their own bowmen. Hundreds of men fell screaming. Hundreds died. Dickon saw one man, made a pincushion, still moving and thrashing. Others clung to the legs of their allies and friends, begging not to be left behind. Yet left behind they were, all the same.

The survivors unleashed scattered fire as they advanced a little closer. The men with longbows used them, arcing shots high and into the rebels. Men with weaker bows had to scramble closer. Those few who misjudged had their arrows fall short. The rebels seemed undaunted, though, and unleashed another practiced volley in time to a booming drum.

Their own crossbowmen soon began to return effective fire, kneeling and working the cranks of their bows. Dickon could just barely hear as their officers tried to volley and concentrate their own fire, but they were more spread out and disorganized than the three large units of mixed rebel bowmen. The rebel bowmen and crossbowmen alternated fire, since the archers could nock and loose more quickly, while all kept behind shields, myrish or otherwise.

More bolts and arrows filled the air, back and forth, and the King’s men began to dwindle. One by one, the rebels concentrated their volleys on individual levies and bowmen. Dickon saw banners falling from the hands of dead standard-bearers: Ambrose, Oakheart, Beesbury, Peake, even Tarly. The huntsman fell no less than three times, only to rise again as a man rushed to hoist it out of the dirt and mud, and then to have him shot out from under it again. When the next volley came, the men left the huntsman in the bloodstained grass and fled in disarray.

The rebels, meanwhile, had already moved on and started pelting the pikemen and men-at-arms behind the skirmishers. Some sort of signal was raised behind their lines, and when a horn blew, bolts began to rain down on waiting men to both left and right. Upright pikes provided some limited ability to deflect arrows and the like but mostly to the front. Men began to shift about, unwilling to just be pelted. More importantly, knights began to curse and cry out among the van.

“Bloody cowards!”

“Northern dogs!”

“Sellsword filth!”

Dickon shifted uncomfortably as well and spotted another knight’s squire also looking anxious. More than a few knights were hot-headed – honestly, many squires were, too, but didn’t have the authority or power to do much with it – and Dickon turned to his father to restore order. Randyll barked at them to be silent, which they did, though whether it was out of fear or respect (or both) Dickon wasn’t sure. It worked, though, and the knights kept their anger and impetuousness to themselves. The waving Stark banners were tempting them sorely.

“Order the advance!” Randyll commanded, and one of their horns blew now.

All across the line, men began to march, pikes glittering like the scales of a giant fish as they advanced. The rebel skirmishers continued to reap a bloody toll, firing into the front ranks or into the sides of exposed formations. Men screamed and fell and blocks of pikemen and men-at-arms and levies left trails of bloody bodies in their wake. Some tried to keep order and advance under shields, mostly the men-at-arms, and the pikemen who were drilled not to ruin their formation, but some and more began to run to get to the enemy and drive away the bowmen.

They were nearly to the rebel lines.

Some of the men who ran hunkered down and waited for their slower fellows to try and keep order. Officers yelled. The Northern ranks were seemingly content to wait for them with locked shields here and pike-walls there. The bowmen had fallen back to the castle, except for a few that found gaps to fire through or over.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Dickon held his breath at the men made contact, and the crash of steel and flesh could be heard even where the Tarly van waited and watched. The young squire turned to his father and saw him completely engrossed in the battle. He was looking for the moment, the opportunity, the perfect place, to charge into the disorganized enemy and drive them before the spurs of Reach chivalry. One hand holding up the huntsman standard, Dickon’s heart beat like a painful drum in his chest and his hands grew slick with sweat just waiting.

 _Seven-willing_ , today would see the end of the war in Westeros.

One battle… take the King in the North, and all this would be done.

The entire line was committed and cutting into the rebels when ballista began to fire, arcing over the foot and across the field. Dickon watched one with terror as it flew through the air towards them, some five or even six feet of wood and iron moving faster than a hawk could dive. It seemed too heavy to fly like it was, too large to even have proper fletching. The man-sized arrow passed harmlessly overhead – thank the Seven – but a clamor and tumult erupted as a second one, by ill luck, managed to hit someone or something. Dickon got one look at what seemed to be a cored warhorse, tumbling from the impact, and the broken body of a knight knocked off his saddle and rolling in the grass like a broken puppet.

“What the hells was that?” a man cried.

“Ballista!” another yelled.

“The castle must’ve had them!”

“We should move out of range!”

“You would quit the field, Ser?!”

“Silence!” Randyll roared over the din. He reared his horse and circled in front of the knightly men. “Keep order!”

But soon a horn blew from one of the other commands, and Dickon turned to see the Peakes were advancing in drips and drabs. The more impetuous were clearly eager to get into the melee and once some left, the others had to follow or be left shamefully behind. The Peake standard waved back and forth, indicating they were charging. A few seconds later, and another horn, and the Ambrose banner did the same. More of those ballista bolts flew and the knights of the Reach would neither flee from them nor remain stoically immobile as they were picked off.

“Keep order!” Dickon’s father raged again. He turned to the melee. There was no time now. “We make for the center and join with the Peakes! Seven-willing, Cuy will have the brains the Father gave a horse and will join us there. Keep pace with me!”

Randyll turned his armored destrier about in a circle, lance in the air to rally around him those who hadn’t heard his commands. They would follow others who had heard. They all knew what this signal meant. They all knew the time for the decisive clash had come. None could stand against the chivalry of the Reach. Dickon cried out with them, roaring approval at the order being given, and soon they were making a fast trot towards the battle.

Closer. Closer.

Dickon could see the bodies of men fallen by the skirmishers earlier. There were fallen men and fallen banners, the latter pristine, the former covered in blood. The smell hit him, then, too: the stick of bowels and piss, mixed with the moaning of the dying left behind. He directed his horse around a man who was somehow still alive, with a crossbow bolt in his eye, screaming for his mother… or maybe The Mother herself… to save him and wake him up and that his face hurt.

Dickon tried not to think on it.

“Now!” his father barked, and a horseman raised a horn to his lips and blew, long and loud. It was a deep, triumphant bellow that emerged from the red-banded horn, and it was the signal to break into a gallop.

“Ya. **Ya!** ” Dickon quietly urged his horse onward, and just as they had trained for years, rider and horse broke into a gallop across the broken ground. Around him, knights yelled and bellowed and readied their lances. Reins cracked and horses whinnied. Grass and dirt kicked up and so much of the battlefield became a blur.

The roar was deafening, not just for the men at foot but the men on horse, too.

The ground sped by, but it was full of obstacles that the footmen had already traversed. Star-shaped objects made of sharpened spikes forced men and especially rushing horses to avoid them. In places the ground had been dug up and made uneven. There were traps that the footmen had been told to fill in when they found them, but predictably hadn’t, that could catch a horse’s hoof and break it, sending it and the man riding it tumbling.

None of this could or would stop a mounted charge, but it did break it up badly. Some men pulled ahead of others. Some men lagged behind. Horses were not mindless beasts and, if faced with something sharp or frightening, would try and avoid it or sometimes even stop and rear. Warhorses were trained to not be as easily spooked as normal horses, to be used to sharp metal and frightful sights and smells, but training could only do so much. Ranks broke up as they crossed the broken battlefield. Men fell. Horses cried in shock and pain. Good knights died. Dickon saw a squire he had eaten dinner with two nights ago fall with his horse.

The horn blew again, and lances were couched.

Randyll’s father directed them, and they saw the dust and clods kicked up by the charging Peake and Cuy cavalry. They were all converging on the center: on the wavering chained giant of the Umbers. The weight of four thousand horse roared, their power concentrated into the tips of their lances. The horns were a warning, too, for their men to make way or be trampled. Dickon saw some try and extract themselves from the melee and hoped more would obey their serjeants and captains. There was little stopping the charge now.

He saw one of the northern wicker giants push forward and initially paid it no mind. Then he heard men cry out in fear. Some **thing** waded into the ranks of the Peake spearmen and a man – _a full grown man in mail_ – flew through the air like a ball that had been kicked. Dickon thought, for some reason, back to one time he had kicked his sister Talla’s doll because it was left in the hall. He hadn’t intended any cruelty in it. It was just in the way and he didn’t want to pick it up, so he kicked it into a corner. He remembered the arms and legs limply flailing in the air.

The man was just like the doll… except he _screamed_.

There was another kick, and this time two men howled as they flew through the air, their bodies broken. What looked like a huge hammer lifted up high and then swept down like a scythe out of the Seven hells, splattering a rank of men. Dickon watched, still charging, as something small that could only be a head was literally knocked clean off a footman’s shoulders.

“Charge!” Dickon heard his father roar. “Sound the horn! **Charge! CHARGE!** ”

Dickon wanted to cry. What were they charging **_into?_**

Giants.

Not wicker giants, not straw giants on wooden sleds… real giants, armored like knights… that was what emerged from the Umber lines. The Northmen seemed little bothered by it and rushed forwards with spears to meet the still charging knights of the Reach. Around Dickon men called out in shock and fear, but they were committed. Some tried to veer or to turn, but there was no room. One knight slammed into another not more than fifty paces away, and both crashed. There was only forward. Forward. **Forward!**

Into the bloody affray.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar II

. . .

It was madness.

Robb Stark had committed their cavalry to countering the charge on the left flank by the Red Fork while the reserves and the giants under Tytos Blackwood shored up the center. The Riverlander ranks parted for them, and many hundreds of dismounted knights – for many had fought dismounted all across the Northern lines – were given spare horses. Even without the actual giants present, the confusion and terror of the center was spreading, like a plague of fear.

Yet men still fought for King Joffrey, or more specifically, for House Tyrell and their lords’ ambitions. Olyvar rode his horse hard and, just as he had practiced, brought his lance down on a man in green and gold jack. The speartip took him in the face and he dropped his own spear to clutch at the wound. Olyvar nimbly used his remaining momentum to knock the man over and then jab at a second reachman. A lance was typically not a great weapon for very long into a melee, but many knights liked to use them until they broke or bent. That latter was the most common point of failure. That, or the tip being too deeply lodged in something, like a ribcage.

The King in the North was a consummate lancer, far better than Olyvar himself or even most of his companions. He rode with two lances to take advantage of that fact, and as he finished off the second reachman and returned to guarding the King’s back, the Frey squire saw the Young Wolf unhorse an Oakheart knight in plate. The man fell to the dirt with a curse and a cry, already reaching for a mace.

He never got the chance, as Robb directed his warhorse forward and about in a tight circle, not an easy bit of horsemanship given the melee around them. The knight was brutally trampled underhoof and Olyvar winced when he saw one heavy horseshoe stamp the man’s head into the dirt with a sickening crunch. The King was already engaged with another foe, even as he killed the man, using his lance to slash a horseman across the neck. An arcing plume of crimson fountained from the wound.

“Ya!” Olyvar urged his horse on, covering the King as he picked up speed and headed to another target. He barreled by a man-at-arms fighting a Piper man, knocking him aside, and matched lances with another Oakheart knight. This would be the third the King took on, not counting the one Grey Wind still had in his jaws, shaking by the neck like a dog would a rabbit or a rat.

With a cry and a lunge, Olyvar lost his lance in the stomach of a foeman in boiled leather.

He switched to his steelbow, then, and fired a shot into a horseman wearing yellow. The force of the impact, and the shock of it, knocked the armored man off his horse. Olyvar left him to the footmen and took aim at a lighter armed man a-horse in the colors of House Ambrose. He nimbly tilted the steelbow and reloaded the chamber with his side of his glove’s thumb. The little hammer cocked and with a second burst of pressurized air, a second shot fired, catching a man by the arm.

“Don’t let up!” Robin Flint cried, raising a blood-stained hammer overhead. “Follow the King!!”

“This way!” Donnel Locke yelled, charging alongside Owen Norry and Dacey Mormont.

The two horsemen and one horsewoman were soon in a melee with four Reach knights, and Olyvar saw one brained by a mace but still riding his horse, even with his neck broken. Lady Dacey’s mace seemed to arc slowly through the air, spraying red like an artist’s paint brush. Behind her, Norry’s lance was buried into the neck of a man knocked clean off his horse. Strapped into his saddle, a dead man in green and gold rode by on a terrified horse, his body lurching sickeningly forward and backward as his horse flew into a confused panic.

A horn blew – not one of theirs – and men started to turn to try and retreat and reform. The Young Wolf’s companions didn’t even need a signal to know what that meant or what their kind intended. Robb fought like a hungry wolf, some said, and once he smelled blood he did not retreat or relent. He attacked, attacked, and attacked again, wherever and whenever he smelled weakness. So, his friends and companions knew that when the enemy tried to reform, they formed up, formed pairs, and chased them down. Many used their steelbows, getting off at least a single shot before closing the distance.

Olyvar saw the King break his second lance on an Oakheart knight in the resulting charge, the tip splintering as he drove it into and across the chest of a mounted man. Plates of armor were ripped free and the man screamed like a babe as he fell of his horse, which whinnied, reared, and fell over. There was a crunch of horseflesh landing on man, and Olyvar rushed onward behind his King. Steel was in Robb’s hand, now, and he caught up to and slashed the horse of a man in armor. It spun around in pain and surprise, and the rider yelped as he was thrown, but landed safely with a roll. Unfortunately for him, Smalljon Umber saw it all and came down on him with a warhammer that old King Robert himself would have approved of. A red slurry leaked from the visor of the man’s crumpled, ruined helm as he fell to his knees.

Shield and hammer, mace, axe and sword, the King’s Companions barreled into the knights of the Reach as they tried to reform for another charge. Behind them, enraged Riverlanders and a horde of heavy horse broke the enemy lines apart and pounced on any of the fallen. Many were given quarter, but others were executed outright.

Olyvar soon found himself facing another squire a-horse, trading blows with an older man in his twenties with less armor but more experience. The blue towers of Frey on Olyvar’s shield rang as it deflected a hard hammer blow. The two circled on their horses, trading blows and looking for an opening. Olyvar found it before his foeman, lunging and then running the blade of his sword across the inner arm of the man. Blood pooled up instantly under the metal-studded jack on the inside of the elbow. Still, the bastard held onto his mace.

“Yield!” Olyvar yelled over the din of battle. “Yield!”

“To a boy?” The other man yelled back. “Never!”

They went back at it, and a blow prompted Olyvar’s arm to tremble painfully. His narrow arming sword lacked the impact of a mace, but even on horseback, it was nimbler and more flexible. Taking another blow to his straining shield, Olyvar finally found an opening and trust his sword into the man’s throat. The tip punched just a little bit out the back, and when it withdrew, the gurgling reachman fell forward and slumped, bleeding to death in the saddle.

“About! About!” Ser Perwyn Frey yelled as he rode by, blood across the left side of his face. “Wheel about!”

“ **With me!** ” The King bellowed, sword held high. Fat Wendel Manderly was alongside him, his spear coated in blood, his mermaid shield splintered. “ **With me!!** ”

 _Gods_ , they were charging again.

This time, their victim was the embattled center, where huntsmen, sunflowers and castles were clashing with chained giants, clenched fists, battle axes and green and black trees. Horns blew loud, theirs and the enemy’s, and men screamed and howled to the heavens as steel met steel, flesh parted, and blood flowed. Grey Wind howled louder than any man, though, and within minutes Robb Stark and his Companions, together with at least eight hundred hard bitten horse took the huge mass of men by the rear, the thunder of their hooves, the roar in the air, the clatter of their steel drowning out the world.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Dickon III

. . .

The giants were wading through them, wreaking bedlam left and right. They wore armor, like a man, and it resisted any but the most forceful thrust of lances and swords, freeing them to kick and swipe and crush and kill. Dickon whirled about on his horse as one armored colossus kicked a mounted knight, horse and all, over and through the air. The beast cried in pain and terror as it tumbled overhead, forcing Dickon to duck in the saddle. It dawned on him, only once it was gone, that maybe a hundred and thirty stone of man and beast and steel had just flown by over his head.

‘ _Mother! Father! Stranger! What have we gotten into!?_ ’

Deflecting a speartip with his shield, Dickon brought his sword down on the helmet of a man in Umber livery, sending him sprawling. What order and ranks they may once have had on both sides were completely lost, now, and there were men in all colors around him in a grand mad melee, like a rainbow turned insane, worming itself into the dirt. What colors were left had long since lost their vibrance, stained by mud and blood until half the men, friend and foe alike, were just shades of brown and black. No tourney had ever been like this. There was no pageantry or gallantry, no shining knights under summer sun, only a press of bodies and death in every direction, coming from every angle.

A knight in Cuy yellow yowled like a dying cat as a giant stomped by, spearing him with the sharpened tip of his war-hammer. Dickon gasped in terror as the screaming man was lifted high into the air atop the hammer, higher and higher, ten feet and then twenty. For what seemed like an eternity, the giant just stood there above the affray, holding the impaled man up like a trophy. Dickon could see the giant’s face behind and beneath its frightful helm, but not its eyes. It just stood there, like a statue, curiously examining the man it had surely just slain like a maester studying an insect stuck on a pin.

‘ _Have we all gone insane?_ ’ the young squire thought, and surely… he at least had lost his mind, because Dickon Tarly suddenly realized he was urging his horse _forward_ instead of _away_.

Lowering the huntsman standard like a lance, he charged the giant with a high-pitched scream. His horse leaping over a pile of dead men and for all that he yelled to the Seven heavens and hells he could barely hear his own voice over the pounding of his heartbeat.

‘ _I will not shame my house! I will not. Kill me! Crush me! But you will **not SHAME ME!**_ ’

In that moment, all the Kings and the Kingdoms fell away. _Joffrey Baratheon?_ Who was that? No one Dickon Tarly had ever met or cared about. _Mace Tyrell?_ Who was that? No man Dickon truly cared about. It was not for any great cause or Kingdom that he charged.

He heard his mother’s sweet voice, he remembered Talla’s stupid doll, Alara holding onto his leg when his father took him to meet Renly’s host, Dorna’s tears when she waved goodbye. He thought of his father, watching him. He hoped Randyll Tarly was watching him now, so he knew that even if he was afraid, he didn’t let it shame him. He thought of his brother Sam, last of all, and wondered where he was now, but glad that it wasn’t _here_. This was no place for foolish, gentle Sam.

And then the huntsman, standard and spearhead both, _shattered_ against the giant’s torso.

A huge foot shifted, Dickon saw, and he knew in a man what that change in stance meant. Thinking and moving more quickly than he ever imagined, Dickon snapped out of his saddle and jumped. The giant’s hammer made nary a sound as he whooshed by, right up until it connected with his horse. The poor beast cried in agony as it was struck with a force like a thunderbolt. Dickon landed in a tumble, leaping away on instinct alone when the giant’s armored boot came down, mere inches from crushing him flat.

Scrambling for his life, Dickon took advantage of his small size and rolled towards the stomping giant, hugging the creature’s right leg and then spinning away when it reversed grip on its hammer and slammed it down into the ground. Lunging with his sword, he aimed for a gap in the giant’s gauntlet and felt it punch into mail. It didn’t draw any blood he could see, but the giant did roar in frustration. It tried to back away to get a clean shot at the insect fluttering around its legs, darting and cutting, but Dickon never let it.

Picking a discarded lance up off the ground, he made one last desperate gamble: to spear the giant in the thigh or crotch. Either were mortal wounds in a man due to bleeding. The problem was that the giants seemed even more heavily armored around their legs than their upper bodies. A mail skirt protected this giant, and the tip of the spear only scraped across it as he tried desperately to find a gap. It was also a hell of a lot harder to thrust upward than it was downward.

“Dickon! You mad fool boy!”

That was father.

“The battle is lost! Find a horse!” Randyll yelled, a bloody Heartsbane in hand. “Find a horse and flee, _damn you!_ ”

“NO HORSE!” the giant bellowed, then, to the shock of both Tarlys. “HUNTSMAN.” It whirled on the elder Tarly. “ **HUNTSMAN!** ”

“Father! Get out of here!” Dickon yelled, straining his lungs. “Go!”

The giant ignored the boy and started towards the man. “Crush the huntsman,” it said to itself, flipping its huge hammer back around into a normal grip. “Beware the blade.”

By the Seven… did it know about Heartsbane?

Another horn sounded, a rebel horn, and Dickon turned to see the direwolf banners heading towards them. He looked around frantically for a horse, but there were none nearby. He heard the horns of the Reach, though, and they were calling for retreat. Maybe if there had been no giants… maybe then they could’ve punched through the center and the Umbers. _Gods_. Gods! Those dummies. Those fake giants. It was all a trap! All of it! Right from the start!

“Go!” Dickon yelled, his young voice cracking. “Go, father! I’ll find a horse! I’ll be fine!”

The giant still advancing on him, Randyll gave a roar, pulled back on his reins, and turned about. He rode away with the giant close behind, ignoring bolts and spears from lesser men. It was not the only giant, either. The Northmen had a baker’s dozen at least, and they all seemed to hear when this one yelled ‘Huntsman!’ One immediately dropped what he was doing, stepped right over a knight, and started towards Randyll Tarly. Another threw his head back and roared. And through it all the charge began to smash through their men, lines broken, everything in chaos.

‘ _Too late to worry about that. I need a horse!_ ’

Still holding his lance, Dickon met the oncoming companions of the Young Wolf.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar III

. . .

OIyvar lost his original horse soon after the fourth charge, ripped out from under him by a Tarly knight whose own lance, used on foot like a pike, had opened the poor beast from belly to tail. The ground was not much of a cushion, though it was softer now than it had been, churned up by horses and men and giants. Ripping a clod of dirt and grass away from his helmet, Olyvar grabbed a nearby shield, saw it bore the colors of House Umber, and signed in relief. The last thing he needed was to be speared in the back for using an enemy shield. The second to last thing he needed was to be speared from the front because he had no shield at all.

He looked about for the King and saw him dismounted, though with his mount was alive nearby, snorting and stamping in agitation. He and two others were cutting through the enemy spearmen to reach someone. Olyvar saw a wavering banner overhead, a white tree on a black field, and didn’t recognize it.

King Robb’s sword parted an armored man from his left leg with an inside cut while Smalljon Umber body-checked another fellow, a sharp estoc in his left hand to finish him off. A head fell from the crippled man-at-arms Robb had taken off his feet just as Grey Wind pounced on a knight circling behind the King. He had been stealthy about it, too, but with Grey Wind nearby the Young Wolf may as well have had eyes in the back of his head.

The sight of the wolf reinvigorated the men who took up the cry: “Young Wolf! Young Wolf!”

The enemy, meanwhile, moaned in despair.

Far more fled than fought, but that was to be expected. Olyvar had known that even before marching off to war. The true battle wasn’t to annihilate the enemy but to drive them into flight and to unman them. Olyvar had read as much in his youth, but he had only seen it himself with King Robb. The King did not easily enter into pitched fights, not if it could be avoided. He preferred surprise and the shattering of enemy morale. It was how they won at Oxcross, at the Camps, at Casterly Rock, and now… surely… at Pinkmaiden. That was how they won, even though they’d been outnumbered in _every single battle._

Yet not all men fled.

Some dug in their heels and fought even harder.

Some few charged the King, eager to end the war then and there. Olyvar rushed to Robb’s aid, only to come face to face with a bloody young squire with a ripped huntsman over his surcoat. He didn’t seem very big, but he had survived the melee thus far and his spear wasn’t to be ignored. Olyvar drew his arming sword.

He lunged, quick, and Olyvar blocked with his shield and closed the distance. A knight trained in the spear wouldn’t rely entirely on a lunge, the Frey squire knew. When the smaller squire changed his grip and tried to strike with the weighted back and shaft of the spear, Olyvar was ready and parried with his sword. The momentum lost, there was little force behind the spear when the other squire tried to reverse it again and put spear-tip to gorget. Even if he hadn’t blocked it, too, Olyvar was sure his armor would’ve deflected it.

He lunged, his estoc aiming for a gap between the cuirass and shoulder. It was deflected by the spear as the other squire backtracked, tossing the spear in favor of his own sword. It was a fine-looking blade, not too dissimilar to Olyvar’s own, and as the King’s squire and son of a rich (albeit full) house, he was well equipped. The other squire had no shield, though. Instead, he pulled a dirk out and held it in his left hand.

Olyvar smirked.

The King himself was fond of using a rondel in close quarters, and Olyvar sparred with him often enough. He had seen the King put a good steel dirk right through a mail coif and into a man’s ear, once. It was easy, but foolish, to imagine the sword to be the more dangerous weapon of the two. If this squire had skill, he could parry effectively with it, too.

Drumming the side of his loaner shield with his sword, Olyvar advanced on the huntsman. Their blades met first, flashing briefly as each tried for an overhand blow to break the footwork of the other. The smaller squire was quick, or maybe it was his lack of a shield, and he balanced easily on his feet as he thrust with sword and defended with rondel. Olyvar preferred the shield, finding comfort in the weight and more than once nearly bludgeoning his opponent with it. He had size and strength on his side and used it.

Men fought on around them, leaving the pair to their duel. Swords clashed, again and again, until Olyvar lost his shield when the other squire got inside his guard, seized his elbow, and tried to bury his rondel into an exposed armpit. Olyvar had needed to twist his shield and strike the smaller squire in the face to force him back. He went half-and-a-half after that, and the next exchange went better, as the smaller squire was forced back and beaten around the head with Olyvar reversed the sword and struck him with the crossguard. It didn’t penetrate, but it did ring the little shit’s bell a bit.

Horns blew, but the squires ignored them, crossing swords again. The rondel came up again, but this time Olyvar was ready, and grabbed the other squire by the upper arm. He twisted hard and the Tarly man yelped in pain, losing grip on his dirk. Olyvar slipped his foot forward through the mud and torn grass, bent at the waist and threw the Reach squire onto his back. Reversing grip on his sword, he tried to bring it down in one smooth motion, only to be checked when the squire stopped his downward motion with his right arm. Steel flashed in front of Olyvar’s face as the man’s blade came uncomfortably close to his eyes.

“Yield!” Olyvar snarled. “Yield, damnit!”

The smaller squire cursed and tried again to get Olyvar in the face with his sword, but it was impossible. Olyvar had leaned in closer and the blade’s own length meant it was impossible to hit anything but the side of his helm. Meanwhile, he kept leaning into his own blade, trying to force it down.

“Fine! I yield!” the squire yelled, as the tip of the arming sword started to press on his chest. He released the grip on his sword but didn’t stop trying to push away Olyvar’s blade. “I yield!”

“About damn time,” Olyvar replied, let out a deep breath, and stood. He removed his sword from the younger man’s chest. Getting a look at him now, he almost looked like a boy. Like little Osmund Frey, his nephew.

“Who are you?” Olyvar asked, keeping an eye on the battle around them.

“Dickon. Dickon Tarly,” the boy answered, slowly rising to his feet, and removing his belt and scabbard. He sheathed his sword and held it out in submission. “My father will pay ransom for me… probably.”

“Olyvar Frey,” Olyvar introduced himself, taking the boy’s sword and scabbard. “So, to be certain, your father is Randyll Tarly?” The boy nodded. “That explains how… _wait_ … were you that idiot I saw fighting Wun Weg?!”

Dickon looked confused. “Wun-what?”

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Talisa I

. . .

Talisa Maegyr watched though the eyes of a surveillance drone as the Blackfish and his riders spread out across the hills and plains east of the castle, chasing down the routed. The knights of the Tyrell vanguard had been lured in, made to overcommit, and promptly shattered, but Robb’s little trick with the giants and penchant for _maskirovka_ in general wouldn’t work a second time, especially if Tarly escaped. They couldn’t stop every man from disappearing into the hills and the brush and word would get out.

But…

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It would make Robb’s job more difficult, but it would make the Commonwealth’s easier. Intel knew there were wargs in southern Westeros, but they took great pains to hide themselves, even among the noble families. Hopefully realizing or rediscovering their utility in a war would help to bring them, and others, out of the shadows. Either way, Robb’s secret weapons were never going to remain a secret forever. Now the whole realm would know.

For the Commonwealth’s investment, they also had some superb footage of the giants in combat to run analysis on, which was part of the point of putting them in the field in the first place. Their mental responses to pitched battle, physical hardship, and above all, to casualties and to combat, all needed some real-world testing. Their reproductive cycles were laboriously long, true, but that could be circumvented with cloning.

“Separate the highborn prisoners for triage,” Talisa ordered, blinking her left eye and focusing on her more immediate concerns. “Make sure you get their names! Remember, red ties for only the most critical patients!”

It was time to get bloody, herself.

There were thousands of dead and dying and the looters were already having at the bodies, often killing the wounded while robbing them. The death was one thing, but the looting was another. It was completely normal behavior here, but it stunk of a lack of discipline and self-control. All the valuables and equipment in the field should be pooled, sorted, and accessed by the quartermasters and their men.

Talisa knew Robb agreed in principle, but in practice it was almost impossible to prevent people here from looting the dead and dying. How could they even deny the villagers and people of Pinkmaiden such a bounty when they had been victimized by Lannister men so recently, the town sacked, and their food stores burned? It hadn’t been the reachmen who did that, but the Reach was sleeping in the same bed with men who had.

Her men and women started bringing in the wounded, and sorting friendlies from hostiles, treatable injuries from terminal ones. The small coterie of maesters Robb’s army had conscripted helped with that, though some still chafed at following orders from the King’s “foreign mistress.”

Robb’s Companions were among the last to return to the camps outside the castle.

They got the best care, by Talisa’s own hand. It was simply pragmatic. Virtually all of them were the sons (or one daughter) of important Northern and Riverlands houses. Only an actual lord would warrant a higher priority. Talisa suspected her old tutors back in the Commonwealth would have a word or two of criticism about it, what with holding onto the ancient Hippocratic Oath, but there was no helping it.

Robb rode at the head of them, looking physically and emotionally exhausted, his eyes downcast and introspective, as he often was after a battle. Grey Wind trotted alongside his master, half-warged. Robb had become quite proficient at this aspect of warging, which was something Talisa was glad for and proud of.

It wasn’t like she had any experience training a skinchanger and Robb didn’t appear to have the tremendous depth of power and talent that Bran did, or the range of Arya, who could warg into her wolf from orbit, nor did he have the Targaryen bloodline of Jon that – it was hoped – could pair him with one of Daenerys’ little lizards or allow for other feats. What Robb seemed to excel at was multi-tasking. Reports from wilding wargs was that it was difficult to have one foot in an animal and another in one’s own body. Robb and Grey Wind were able to coordinate on both a conscious and unconscious level.

It was a rare skill that shined and refined itself in battle and bloodshed.

“Hey there, boy,” Talisa said softly, holding out her hands as Grey Wind padded over and nestled his huge snout first in her hands and then in her cleavage, nuzzling with a cold wet nose. “Hey. Hey now. Robb.”

He cracked a smile atop his horse, and Grey Wind sat down, licking his bloody chops. Talisa ruffled his fur and scratched behind his ear like she knew he liked. It was easy, sometimes, to imagine the wolves were just giant dogs, like huskies or collies or German shepherds. But then you’d wonder why you never heard one bark, or you’d look into their eyes, and you’d remember the difference. Still, Grey Wind did like to be scratched behind his ear, and his tail wagged a little bit as he leaned his bear-sized head into her hand. His mood and Robb’s moods were inextricably linked.

“Productive day?” she asked.

“A red day. A bloody day,” Robb replied, his smile smoothing out into a neutral expression. He turned to the Smalljon, who had ridden up to his side. “I want the prisoners treated with the honor that is their due. It will make them less resistive when we move them.”

“Your Grace,” the huge Smalljon agreed, and rode ahead.

Behind him, Dacey Mormont and Donnel Locke were herding captured men forward, all noble summer knights of the Reach. They would be processed, recorded, and tallied. Occasionally, Robb’s army did have some problems with respecting prisoners, but those were westermen. The reachmen did not provoke the same sort of animosity, not by a long shot. Most were seen as walking bags of gold given the wealth and prosperity of the Reach, and captives could either be traded to the King on the spot for a gold bounty or held for those who preferred to negotiate their ransom personally. Either way, the Crown got a small cut of it all. It was all very mercantile, though Talisa knew calling it such would offend the noble Sers.

“Anyone I need to look at?” Talisa asked, casting an eye over the man’s companions. “Olyvar? Are you alright?”

The Frey squire had a young man walking alongside his horse (given the colors on this one, he must’ve lost his original), and both young men looked beaten up but clearly well enough to stand and walk.

“Just a few scratches,” Olyvar grumbled. “I’ll be fine, my Lady.”

“That’s Randyll Tarly’s only heir,” Robb commented, a ghost of a grin returning. “Dickon. A few of us saw him fight Wun Weg to a standstill. Not many boys his age would try and geld an angry giant.”

The Tarly boy was frowning and had a bloody lip and a dash across his scalp. He looked like he’d be fine, but he was also young… very young, maybe his very early teens. Talisa tried to remember when her three brothers were that age. They fought, yes, all boys did, but never like here on Westeros. The people here were a special breed. She only hoped they proved as hearty when the time came to march to war for the Commonwealth. Not that the Commonwealth would be sending children to fight, but their… resilience… was actually quite admirable.

“Who is this?” the young teen growled. He coughed and bowed his head a little. “My lady, forgive me, may I ask your name?”

“Talisa,” she answered, looking him over briefly. “Nice to meet you, Dickon.”

“Talisa?” the boy gasped and looked at her with wide eyes. “The Essosi Witch!?”

“Uh. Yeah. That Talisa.” She cocked her head and gave the boy a stare. “Why? What have you heard about me?”

“N-nothing,” Dickon lied.

“Let me guess.” Talisa crossed her arms and tried to imagine the sort of tall tales these people would tell about her in the rest of Westeros. “Do I poison wells? Raise the dead? Dance naked under the moonlight? Eat men’s hearts?”

Dickon muttered something, and her eyes widened. She’d only caught it because of the ear implants.

“What was that?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Dickon stammered.

“What was it?” Robb asked, suddenly rather curious. “What was it?” he asked again.

Talisa frowned up at him. “Apparently, I enjoy the company of Kings and Wolves, quite literally.”

Robb stared at her, a little lost. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning I let Grey Wind hump more than my leg.”

“Oh. OH.” Robb’s surprise turned dark, and he turned to Dickon. “Is that so?”

“It isn’t like this kid is the one spreading the rumors,” Talisa argued and scoffed. “Not that it matters anyway. A bunch of primitives with wagging tongues.”

Yet it did irk her, rather obviously. Even if it _was_ just iron age savages saying nonsense.

“I am no goat, my lady,” Dickon suddenly said.

“What did I say?” Talisa asked.

“You called him a ‘kid,’ my lady,” Olyvar answered.

“A bit of slang from Volantis, that’s all!” Talisa insisted with a forced smile. “But I guess this means the older Tarly escaped?”

“Unless Brynden brings him in,” Robb replied, and gestured back. “There’s someone else you can look at. We captured Lady Oakheart in the camps. She had an encounter with one of the giants and fainted.”

“Not a fighter like the Mormonts?”

Robb shook his head. “A noble lady, known even in the North.”

“I’ll look her over,” Talisa promised, knowing a soft spot in Robb’s heart when she saw one. “What about you? Any nicks or scratches?”

Robb smirked at the opening she gave him. “I have one you can look at later.”

“Such sweet talk!” She walked forward and patted his horse on the rump. “Get out of here and wash off all that blood, _Your Grace_. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Aye,” Robb said, and rode on.

“My lady,” Olyvar muttered, blushing a bit, as he likewise went on his way.

“So… she _is_ the King’s mistress?” Dickon asked, and she overheard. Olyvar just prodded him along to keep moving.

Covering her left eye with her hand, Talisa quickly connected with the drone from before. The tracker on Ser Byrnden highlighted his position easily enough, and he had captives, but none that looked like Randyll Tarly. If such an important man had been captured, then the Blackfish would’ve probably taken him back to Pinkmaiden personally. There was still time, but every hour that passed widened the search area.

Talisa was about to sever the connection… when she saw another force approaching. There was a skirmish some distance to the north. Stopping in place and concentrating, she ordered the drone closer and tried to get a look at the banners involved. She saw… black dogs on a yellow field. That had to be the elder Clegane, a monster called the Mountain who probably suffered from some form of gigantism. No way to know for sure until she had him on an operating table, which hopefully would be sooner or later. The other banners…

Flayed men. _Boltons_.

And those foreign mercs, too, the ones called the Mummers.

“Hmm.” She frowned. “That’s going to be a problem.”


End file.
